It’s been a rough weekend. I received number 21 in my inbox today – that’s 21 rejection letters so far. I know that number is only going to grow before the acceptance letters begin to trickle in, and oh, how I hope they do. I know I should not get discouraged just yet, and I keep telling myself that nobody liked Van Gogh when he was alive, either, but…
it doesn’t make me feel awesome to keep seeing those syrupy words, those apologies and false regrets. It doesn’t make me feel better to know that your publication only takes “the best of the best” and while my work is “inspired and, in turn, inspiring” it just doesn’t fit. Don’t wish me good luck, you could care less if my words ever see light of day. For Chrissakes, just be honest with me.
Don’t try to let me down easy. I take your pity much harder than the sharp words on the screen. Your thanks for my submissions is a slap in the face. Those words – those words are a thousand different cells of myself that I’ve scraped from my soul for you. Don’t patronize me about them.
If they’re not worthy, just say so. If they could be better, tell me how. If they make you feel something, what is it? My words are shots in the dark. I can keep shooting, but are they hitting anyone? Is this all in vain?
It is dark, it is late, and here I am, awake. Waiting. For an answer, a reply, or to simply fall asleep and forget this day. At this point, I’m not sure which one I welcome more. It has been about a week since I slept well enough to count it as sleeping.
I can’t stop thinking about all the things I’m failing to finish, failing to start, failing to steer in the direction I need/want it to go. I’m thinking of all the things I’m doing, and all the things I’m not doing. I’m thinking of all the things that are happening around me that I’m not a part of and I’m not sure why. I’m trying to line up my obstacles so that I can see a clear view of them so as to figure out a way to tackle them, but they seem to keep blurring together into a brick wall that’s coming fast and closing in on me.
I haven’t been manic in a while. I didn’t miss it then and I don’t appreciate it now. I woke up this morning and felt like I’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed. I have yet to be able to go back to start over, but we’ll try again tomorrow.
Tonight, I sit here and re-read, over and over again, different words I’ve sent out into the Universe. Each of those submissions have stated, in a tone I can only take as snobbish and a bit condescending, that they do not publish previously published pieces, even if those pieces are published on a self-published blog.
So I’ve kept many of my words hidden from my dear 44 followers (and I swear, each and every one of you is dear to me) out of the pride in my ability and the hope that someone else will recognize it, and I am angry tonight. I am angry that my words are going unheard, unread, and unspoken by others. I am angry that my voice is being carried on the wind to nobody, nowhere.
And I’d like to share a few flash fiction pieces I have written. Thank you for reading, please consider following, and I implore you to please, please, leave some feedback. Comment and tell me I suck. Tell me how I can suck less. Tell me I’m good. Tell me how I can be more good. Tell me you don’t know what to say. Tell me anything.
I found a love letter today. It was not addressed to me. No, this was intended for a much younger mistress, one whose suitor was obviously smitten with her.
I have no doubt she was a blonde.
There have been too many occasions of my asking, “How could he do this to me?” for any sane woman to have stayed this long. I think of you and the destiny we’ve chased out of the greedy reach of time and space that dared to defy us,
and I want to meet this little boy, who loves my daughter this much.
Every time I see a pair of Chucks, it makes me smile. It reminds me of you, of holding hands and windblown cheeks blushing scarlet. Even then, you made my heart race, albeit with more innocence. I adored you, with your long hair and your long words. Words that led my little heart along as if on a string. I’d follow you anywhere, content to be at your side. What was it? Your frayed edges, the ragged breaths in which you’d whisper how much you liked kissing me. The stubble of your cheek against the softness of my own. The way you smelled of leather jacket and that old truck. Oh, the good times we had in that small space between the driver’s seat and mine. We’ll just call it mine because there were no others who fit there like I did, and once I set my heart on you, you were mine, too.
OBSERVATION OF FEAR
Alone, I am weaker than my fears, though inside I know there is someone looking down on me for having them. I know they are simple, I know they are solvable, I know the things I fear are inevitable. They play as big a role in this world as I do. Which, to certain perspectives, is kind of a big deal, and in reality, is just not. Sometimes I come face to face with the fears I carry, but with a distance between us. There’s a buffer between us, like a villainous-looking beetle or roach-like creature crawling across a window. From a distance, it looks so menacing; up close, I can examine the insides and the workings of it without having to touch it and without the repercussions of being vulnerable. In that moment, I have no fear that is one thousand times bigger than me, and certainly not of something one thousand times smaller.
You are my window.
Thank you for reading. Have a lovely evening and a fabulous week.
– xoxo : )