The beautiful, fucked-up thing is
Welcome to Mommy’s El Camino.
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Monday December 16th, 1pm-3pm Pacific.
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It’s that time of year when some of the writers and artists you know post something to social media about their accomplishments in 2024. Here are a few of mine:
—went to the Hollywood Bowl Jazz Festival for the first time, FINALLY!
—survived my first experience (and hopefully last) having covid.
—supported my partner as she, and by extension, our family, copes with cancer.
—spent at least 14 hours talking, IRL, over two consecutive weeks, with one of my best friends.
—set up an additional altar.
—incrementally increased my level of patience with/for my teenager.
—got my mother’s end of life paperwork official and legally sorted out.
—went to the pool, often. Visited the ocean, often (I shot for weekly, which didn’t happen, but I visited more than I did the previous year).
—by year’s end I will have met the Mommy’s El Camino weekly deadline 50 weeks of this year.
—successfully taught a graduate nonfiction course this Fall.
—published one essay in a print journal.
Are these all “accomplishments”? Maybe, maybe not. But these are the things I’m most proud of when I have to forage through my brain about what exactly happened this year (still thinking of January-June as Before—before I got covid and before my partner’s cancer, while July-December is After—after my partner’s cancer diagnosis, surgery, treatments).
Back in February, I wrote about how I was done submitting to literary journals. The piece I published this year, in Pleiades, was solicited (meaning I sent some pieces directly to the editor who asked me if I had some nonfiction pieces, and they chose one to publish).
Then something came over me in September. I felt like this one essay surely could be placed in a journal…and against my earlier judgment, I logged into Submittable (grooooooan) and submitted the essay.
When the form rejection arrived this week, I had a moment of disappointment. A bunch of other un-related activity overtook my brain, and when it got quiet again, the disappointment returned, and there was some sadness. Then, my brain went into “fix” mode.
I could post the rejected essay here, for the 700+ subscribers of Mommy’s El Camino. I could set the essay aside and get back to work on other writing. I could return to the rejected piece and edit it, or not, and send it elsewhere.
But: sadness. Little stings. I recently asked Skylight Books about having a book event in April for the reprints of my three books. I’ve participated in several events there, including my own book launch with a large turnout for my last book in 2016. It was a long time ago, but their non-reply deepened the little groove of sadness that began with the rejection.
I’m in a vulnerable place. I have excitement around my books being reprinted next spring, and I’m also faced with the fact that reprints, understandably, do not have the same draw or get the same attention as new books. Thank goodness I’m still into these texts—having to reread them as they go through the pre-printing process reminds me that I stand by them, still think they are good, worthy, and even important. But I’m also dispirited by the rejection, by the lack of response from a bookstore, and the overwhelm of imagining the unique ways I might try to get these books into readers’ hands, AGAIN, next year.
I’m mulling over submitting this one essay AGAIN, because there’s a journal with a deadline of tomorrow that might be a good fit, and it is a paying venue (also a consideration for me these days). And then: the wait. Two to four months of limbo on a piece that is close to my heart. I…I want to reject that: the wait, the dismissive nature of a faceless rejection. Maybe I’ll submit twice a year. Maybe next year I won’t submit at all. Maybe I’ll get solicited for work. Maybe I won’t. Maybe my books will find their readers. Maybe they won’t. The beautiful, fucked-up thing is: no matter what, I write.
Thanks for being here, and thanks for reading this far. By virtue of your subscription, that this newsletter even skates across your divided attentions and gets read or does not, you are my beloved audience. And I appreciate you.
I appreciate you.