Bless me O readers. It has been three weeks since my last confession, and what a whirlwind it has been.
First on the docket is discussion of my rejections, and why I feel they were warranted.
I’ve always felt that I’m in a hurry, whether in a rush to get to work in the morning or impatience with a story idea that deserves a great deal more plotting. I submitted two of my pieces: A short story called The Cadillac, and a poem simply entitled Anchor.
I must iterate that the people that responded back to my submissions were fully professional and prompt. The Cadillac was indicated as curious, yet slight, and Anchor was simply not a good fit. Both editors did request that I submit to them again in the future, and I let out a big sigh of relief. Why?
I suppose mainly because I was afraid to let them go. To sell my work. Regardless of what the agreement is, I am selling my children to the industry, every time I accept money in hand for any printed works. There are obviously overlooked exceptions to this rule, but for the most part, I do sell out.
I’m even considering Romance. I hate Romance. You show me a Romance book I like and I’ll sell you ocean-front property in Austin, Texas. Romance to me has always come across as seriously lacking in realism, along with a corny plot, unconvincing scenes and gasping breath for some schmuck who is all muscle, handsome and ‘unique’. Right. All the Romantic men are unique. Just like everyone else. I pick up a Romance and I have to shake myself awake in fifteen minutes.
Romance sells, and I do have the skills to write one, even though I’ll not admit it. I need money, and I need it something bad. Children put a driving fire inside of you to get creative and survive. We shall see how that concept pans out. I’m hoping the husband is able to land a new job and I don’t have to step outside of my genre just to make a buck.
Second on the agenda: Where have I been?
I’ve been around to be sure, but with the entire family ill for two solid weeks, followed up by my sudden and violent submission to whatever virus it is that we had, it’d worn me down. I normally Twitter and write Magnus or Xanox’s adventures as opposed to my own, should the appropriate amount of time arise to issue a new blog installment.
The baby has mastered the art of balancing on two legs, to the point of running away when I notice her diaper is ripe for changing, followed by elfish giggling and moments of hiding. Her favorite letter of the alphabet seems to be the letter B. Ball, bye, Bob, box…she says many “B” words.
She mirrors our attitudes also. This morning, anxiety attacked me as I rushed to get the household ready for work. I shouted in frustration because I couldn’t find my work keycard. Explicitory language was heard all over the house that is, until I hear an echo of the exact same tone of voice that I was using.
Slam on the brakes, whoa.
Scowling like a woman in a midlife crisis instead of a 14-month-old, the child pointed at the ceiling and in a language known only to her and most closely resembling a hungry Sim from Sims 2 game, she let me have it.
We hugged and she giggled, running down the hallway with a soggy bottom.