October | 2021 | mrsfringe

Yeah, I’m going to try blogging regularly again. It used to be–dare I say it–fun. Fun is good. Besides, I don’t think I added more than a page to the current WIP this week. This way I can feel productive. Not much to say, though, so come wander through the park with me. I am not a good photographer, but wanting the just the right photos to go with blog posts taught me I enjoy playing with the camera. Between my terrible vision and shaky hands, I pretty much just keep clicking until the battery dies. When I want to run away, I grab the camera and go to Central Park. Sometimes in search of birds, sometimes peace, sometimes to wander through the trails of the North Woods–the rats are bolder and more numerous up there but fewer tourists and closer to home–so I can sob my way through. Today I took the train downtown, entered the park by Strawberry Fields. Not long ago I wrote a flash fiction piece about a woman who runs away to the park and stays there. I think one lit mag is reading it. I don’t write a lot of flash, so I tend not to keep close track of whether or not a piece is on sub, and rarely try more than a couple of places.

Anyway. You hear New Yorkers say you can forget you’re in the city when you’re in Central Park. Now, I do love it, but that’s a damned lie. People, traces of people, clearly manmade structures, bridges, gates and/or the shadow of buildings are everywhere in those 843 acres. I’m pretty sure I’ve even read the slow change of leaves in the fall is due to the way the sun/shadows are disrupted by the buildings surrounding the park.

The Lake in Central Park. Beautiful, but not exactly the middle of nowhere.

I know it’s stunning when you’re surrounded by vibrant autumn colors, but I kind of like these days, with surprise pops of red or yellow against the green and brown. Much the way I walk past the serious birders of the park (and there are many serious birders in Central Park–for good reason, tons of species) with their lenses that are longer than I am, taking shots and debating the movement of amazing birds I usually can’t even see outside of their Twitter posts. I mostly stick to the sparrows/robins/bluejays/mourning doves. Yes, I will die on the hill saying those regular brown city sparrows are underrated. They’re beautiful, move and sing in little communities. Look at these little faces.

I’m not a fan of city squirrels, but they are great subjects if you’re slow with the camera. They aren’t remotely afraid of people, so they aren’t moving just because you stopped to take a picture of them. Unless you have food, in which case give it up or run, because they’ll shiv you, your grandma, and your baby to steal a few goldfish crackers.

It was a good afternoon for wandering, wind kicking enough to remind everyone that it is the end of October, slow color change or not. Until the wind increased and reminded me it was time to get home before I got clipped in the head by an errant piece of scaffolding.

Have a good weekend, all.

Well, here we are. Or here I am, in any case.

I never made a conscious decision to stop blogging, or take a break, or whatever this has been. Like many others, I got caught in the tidal wave of the pandemic, and just getting through was about all I could do. I’m not sure I’m restarting, either, this may be a one-off. But I have thoughts, one in particular, that’s been banging around my brain these past couple of weeks. And good grief, it’s been so long since I blogged, WordPress is using a new (not intuitive!) editor program, and it just took me twenty minutes to figure out how to insert a photo.

This was never specifically a writing blog–and it isn’t about to become one–but I have rambled a fair amount about writing because it’s a big part of me and my life. Over the course of the pandemic, I did more submitting of short stories than I ever had before, had some success (acceptances/publications), and lots of thanks but no thanks, often but not always with specific invitations to try again. That’s the way of the publishing world, until and unless you’re SUPER BIG NAME WITH MANY ACCOLADES. Which is not most, not even those who are successful. Over the past week I received a couple of rejections I’d been waiting for, and this morning I sat down to the laptop intending to choose a few new places to send those stories to, and just couldn’t. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. Seriously, I feel like this chicken.

Chicken? Rooster? What do I know, I’m a city gal, after all.

Smashed into an invisible wall and decided here was as good a place as any to drop.

So what are these deep thoughts I’ve been having that I absolutely needed to share with the world? Rejection, of course. Not in a poor me kind of way, not calculations of acceptances/rejections, not looking for pep talks or cheerleading. Just thinking about the repeated choice to continue pursuing some measure of success in an area where monthly, weekly, daily rejections are par for the course. Thinking this must have, have had, an effect on the choices I make, the way I view the world, the way I view myself. Don’t you think?

Seriously, I’m wondering. What would the difference be, if there was a difference, if I was one of the many who enjoyed reading and writing as a child, got some nice compliments from a second or fifth grade teacher, and just left it there? Limited writing to cute or heartfelt messages at the bottom of Christmas and birthday cards. Impassioned social media posts. Maybe became one of those obnoxious, “Oh, you write? I always wanted to write a book but don’t have time, I’m going to write a bestseller when I retire, I’ve got the formula down from all the thrillers I read.” I don’t think I’d be radically different, the rest of me is still me, the rest of life would still be what it is. I’d still have a dark outlook but like to laugh, still be an old-timey Noo Yawk broad, still hate when it’s cold enough I have to wear socks, still have some who think I’m funny and more who think I’m too damned much. But I think there is something, and I wonder if it’s something significant enough that after all these years it’d be noticeable? fundamental?

Sure, it’s well known you have to have or develop thick skin to pursue any creative work. Which is weird as fuck, because at the same time you have to remain so sensitive you’re raw, the proverbial bleeding onto the page. Have such an inflated sense of yourself, your words, your ability to create fictional people and worlds you put your work out there absolutely certain others will care enough about your characters they’ll laugh with them, be shocked by them, maybe even cry when you kill them off. Hope these imaginary readers will pay real money to read your work, while understanding and accepting many more won’t be interested, maybe even think your blatherings are good for nothing more than lining the chicken coop.

Do you line chicken coops with paper?