Timing is Everything
By J.A.
McDougall
Note for next summer: Upon return from holiday, have the good sense to write
first and open mail second.
SUNDAY
Great vacation. No laptop, no newspaper. Even the cell phone was without service
on those country roads. Camping and visiting family in the pleasant land of
Saskatchewan did me good. Put life in perspective: family-- spirit-- mind--
body. Returned home rested and inspired. Must capture this mood in my writing!
Can't wait to start fresh tomorrow morning.
MONDAY
Four pounds heavier and two shades darker, I plunk down at the computer at five
a.m. Three bolded subject lines, each a variant on the "your submission" theme
pop into my mailbox. Without regard to what I'm risking mood-wise, I eagerly
double click. The first is the standard "thanks, but no thanks; good luck in
publishing elsewhere." Fine, I think. I will find it another home. The second
note surprises me, but when I re-read the flash with well-rested eyes, I agree
it could be better.
Opening three rejections in one day can be disheartening enough, but my third
note includes lengthy detailed comments that crush any possibility for a
productive morning of writing. My writing is bad and my topic uninteresting. I
worry my story actually offended the editor. I read his words ten times before I
stand up and go to the backyard to breathe. I'm not angry-- yet. I'm still
inspecting every word he chose and every sentence (which I memorize) hunting for
a hopeful speck on which I can hang my shrinking self-esteem.
Nothing.
I read it again.
Nothing.
His assessment is bare and final. That the harsh comments are specific and well
supported only hurts more. There is no wiggle room. Reading that the piece had
major flaws that I can't see myself-- not before I submitted and not even now--
is infuriating. How will I ever be able to edit my own work? At first I try to
be thick-skinned and mature and all that. I read the comments as suggestions,
make plans to improve the piece. I print off the letter and compare it with
feedback from my writer's group. Had my peers been too kind?
Long ago, I accepted that I'm not a natural, but I believed my writing would
improve through reading and practice, if I was honest and determined. This
rejection takes me back to the beginning, without the consolation that it is
just the beginning. Maybe I won't submit for a while. Just write for my own
pleasure. Stick to workshops. Stay safe.
TUESDAY
With this modest goal in mind,
I try to build something new.
Too scared. Too tense. I have no ear.
My best description deep blue.
Editing works in progress,
I second guess every word.
Spend more time reading manuals,
Rewriting clichés I've heard.
Now I'm pissed.
WEDNESDAY
I'm ready for a fight so I show the note to my husband.
"Can you please read this? And don't tell me that 'it's ok.'"
"Yikes," he says, handing me back the sheet.
"Yeah, I know. I need you to listen for a few minutes. Please don't argue with
me. Or agree with me. Just listen."
I'm desperate to clear my head of the defensive arguments that naturally appear
in the mind to protect the heart. Once voiced, they might stop rolling around in
my head, blocking every entrance and exit, ruining any future chance for
creative thought or expression.
"First of all, this guy obviously doesn't have a clue what I'm trying to get at.
Can you believe him criticizing the narrator's values and behavior? Even in
nonfiction, editors should be open to multiple points of view. Not everyone sees
the world the same way."
My husband doesn't flinch. I'm safe.
"I honestly don't know what's so wrong with it. I don't agree AT ALL with his
assessment. I wasn't trying to pretend anything with that middle section; it
just is what it is…"
I sip my coffee.
"I'm actually working with the assumption that this poor fellow finished a hard
day at work and came home to yet another deadline on a pile of dull submissions.
He decided to take it out on someone. He may not have even read the whole thing.
Probably skimmed it. Once." I'm shaking my head, checking out small sandy
footprints on the lino.
"Oh! Oh! And did you see where he contradicted himself? Ha! What a joke!" I feel
a sour smile form on my face.
"Seriously though, who do they think they are anyway? It's not like they even
pay their authors."
"And that pretentious rhetorical question at the end! The answer is NOOOO!"
On I rant, slicing the air with my fingers, my best debating voice coming out of
retirement. My poor husband stands across from me struggling to keep his face
blank, but the slight wrinkle in his forehead suggests a concern for my sanity.
I imagine his gentle voice: I always felt you were pretty open to feedback.
"Well… of course there were some valid points, some things I can learn from…
like the grammar error is an obvious one, but I'll be damned if I'm giving up on
this story! They're lucky I let them be the first to consider it!"
At this, he raises an eyebrow.
"Thanks." Time for a walk around the block.
I walk and walk. I think good thoughts.
You're still a writer, because a writer writes.
Absorb encouragement, ignore the distractions.
Don't look too far ahead, concentrate on today.
Focus on what you do well.
Float your own boat.
Your voice is valid.
Write what you know for now and when the timing is right for a
challenge in content or in form, stretch. You'll know the timing's right because
you'll feel confident, courageous, and open.
Kind of like I felt on Sunday.
Emotionally spent, it takes me fifteen minutes to lope around the block. I
remind myself that the submission process is nothing like a workshop. Rejections
have no obligation to help or to inspire; they are explanations for why a story
is simply not good enough to publish.
Rounding the driveway, I am one step closer to my goal, calmly accepting
professional criticism of my work, grateful to be treated as a serious writer.
J.A. McDougall writes fiction and creative non-fiction from
her home in Calgary, Canada. Her work has appeared online and in print in places
such as
www.flashquake.org,
www.salomemagazine.com, and Cup of Comfort for Mothers to Be (Adams
Media, 2006), and Chicken Soup for the Shoppers Soul (HCI, 2006).
