Let me preface this post by inserting this:
Of course, this particular song about being shot down in flames has absolutely nothing to do with writing, querying, rewriting, the publishing world, or literary agents. It’s an awfully happy song about a man looking for lust in all the wrong places, and being a horse’s ass while doing it. Let’s say I need a pick-me-up right about now, so I chose this wonderful piece of early AC/DC. (I’m a closet AC/DC fan, of the works before Bonn Scott died. I know; it doesn’t really mesh with the Bach Partita side of me. What can I say? I’m multi-cultural.)
Yes, readers, non-readers, writers and those who don’t really care, I have received yet another rejection letter today. That makes two this week. Woo-hoo!
I would cry, but I’d rather not think about rejection at this point. Besides, it’s hard to justify any rumination of auto-responses. Why waste the time?
I’ve been having a hard time lately writing. ANYTHING. I don’t even open my checkbook, and I have no ATM card, so if you can imagine being in the mindset of cleaning out the car for spare change – yes, that’s me. I missed two CITIcard payments in a row. But, things are improving. Last week, I wrote a rather scathing letter to American Airlines and mailed it to their Dallas headquarters. For my two attempts at expressing my dissatisfaction, they sent me two eVouchers.
I need approximately five eVouchers in order to feel better. Back to the drawing board.
Yesterday, I left work early and decided to write. After my latest critique group get together, I realized I have so many pots on the stove, nothing is getting cooked.
So I started by opening up some files that haven’t seen the light of day in months. And I discovered a few things:
1. I totally forgot some of the stories I wrote. Swear to God! As I was reading, I realized that some of them aren’t half bad. Some are pretty humorous. Some don’t even sound like me, but I know they’re mine, because no one else is writing for me. Working the archives was like cleaning the closet; there in the back recesses where the centipedes live, is a pair of flawlessly stitched, perfect pumps. Next to them is a cute chemise with the tags still on them. And next to that is a purse I’d forgotten I owned. My computer is much like my messy closet. It’s the gold mine! or at least a pyrite mine! of unique ideas and sassy words and scenes strung together with a little more than glue and duct tape.
I realized I needed to get off my lazy, sorry, fat, unsympathetic ass and get moving. Luckily for me (and thanks to my Mr. Ed), I have acquired all kinds of strategies for mapping out my stories. These include writing them down in my trusty notebooks.
I’m so much farther ahead now than I was a year or so ago. 🙂
2. Dr. Wicked is a freaking genius. I feel like PayPaling him again, just to properly convey my appreciation.
3. Friends are priceless. Writing friends, even more so.
Now I’m going back into the archives. You never know what you’ll pull up.