rants

She Said What?!

Angry-man-rights illustration (Photo credit: HikingArtist.com)

Can we talk about the human side of this election? Yanno, the post-voting fallout?

I’m stunned by the numbers of people posting complete vitriol–from both sides. On my personal Facebook page it’s been limited, but frankly I think that has more to do with having a small circle of friends than anything else. Even within that small circle, I’ve seen plenty of people unFriending each other. Is the shrinking middle class being reflected in shrinking moderation in all areas?

If you’re new to Fringeland, let me tell you now, I’m broke and lean left. If you’re already offended, this blog isn’t for you.

I have friends on both sides, listen to opinions on both sides, see the same facts and figures get skewed by both sides. To me the choice, if not all of the issues, was clear. For all of my reading and listening, I don’t really understand how some of my friends have the beliefs they do. Some, I think I get it even if I disagree, based on clues and things I know are true in their lives.

My Foot is Slipping (Photo credit: Old Shoe Woman)

Others, I don’t get it at all. It seems to me they’re fighting against their own interests, one foot in the same muck mine is in and the other heel grinding into the dirt to be buried alongside the first one.

But here’s the thing. I know they’re looking, listening/reading, and thinking the same about me. They believe our country, our values, and our basic rights are slipping away under Obama. And no, I’m not talking about any of the hateful, ignorant worms we’ve all seen photos of and quotes from online– you know the ones, those who proudly held up signs saying “Bring the White Back into the White House,” or any of their despicable cohorts.

I’m talking about people who aren’t in the 1%, people who are intelligent, reasonably well read, often highly educated. Maybe they have children they’d like to send to college, maybe they have children with significant chronic medical needs, maybe they work union jobs, maybe they’re on disability, or collecting unemployment benefits, maybe they’re women, maybe they’re people of color, maybe they consider themselves caring and moral people (with or without religion), maybe they’re gay, maybe they’re counting on help from FEMA, or the Federal government to rebuild the infrastructure of their community in the wake of Hurricane Sandy.

In my opinion, these are all people who have the potential to benefit more from Obama than they would have under Romney. Some of them disagree. Fine. I accept that, I was raised with and am quite comfortable with our two party system. Frankly, I’d like to see some teeth from one or two of the smaller alternative parties in addition, to keep people thinking and evolving along with the world. I don’t have enough hubris to write all of these people off, blanketing myself in the assumption that they’re all either dim, heartless, or evil.

Some people ranting, roaring, and picketing is good. We need people with that level of passion to get everyone else paying attention. I admire those who fully devote themselves to the causes they believe in, and I thank them for putting their time and energy into these causes, caring enough to keep up the work and attention when elections end, and others might think there’s no more work to be done.

I rarely, rarely see honest, potentially helpful political discourse. The closest is Real Time with Bill Maher, which I’m sure will have 2 of my 3 readers screaming at the computer screen when they read this. The third will wail that I’m rolling over and giving in, not passionate enough.

But. When did it turn into everyone screaming? If everyone is screaming, no one is listening. I see rants, misleading partial quotes, and a whole lotta lalalala.

Franz von Stuck: Dissonanz Heliogravur von Hanfstaengl. Plattengröße 53 x 46,5 cm, (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I grew up in a home where there was a lot of political arguing. My father would rant, calling my brother a fascist and my brother would bellow back, calling my father a communist. I would go hide in my room, wishing they would both shut the fuck up. The past year has felt like old home week. Except I’m not hiding in my room and don’t want everyone to shut up. I care very deeply about my life, your life, and the world my children are going to live in. Just lower your voices so I can hear your words, and the intention behind them.

Big Senile Dog Asplodes

Big Senile Dog in better days

He’s getting up there in age. Accelerated due to an unfortunate incident several years ago, when he drank the saltwater from the sump of our tank. With age, comes more illness and accidents, just like people. Guess what I’ve been doing for the past 18 hours?

They’re still predicting this storm is going to hit New York. OK, I can be a good mommy and start getting prepared. Made sure we have plenty of meds, food, distilled water for the tank, gumbo for the ~~beasts~~ dogs, and I figured I’d buy some stuff to make cookies or some kind of treat with Flower Child this weekend. So, one of the things I bought was a small bag of sugar. Really, I try to remember to have all food put away if and when I leave the house, I know Big Senile Dog is a counter surfer. Silly me didn’t think he would decide to go after an unopened bag of sugar. In plastic, so not even like it was one of the paper bags so he’d smell it easily. Heh.

You know I came home to find sugar e-ver-y-where. We have pseudo-wood floors, many places where the seams between the boards are a little too big. Get the picture? Sweep, wash, sweep, wash. I had to go back out at this point, so I’m sure I’m being clever by giving the dogs an extra walk first. I’m not that dumb, I know Big Senile Dog will be sick from the sugar he ate. Ummm hmm. I’m out with Husband and Flower Child, maybe 45 minutes, come home to find the freaking dog has puked. E-ver-y-where. To make it perfect, copious amounts of drool were mixed with the puke, and both dogs had walked through the puddles.

O-Ceder – Sponge Mop (Photo credit: Mid-Century Pretty)

Wipe, wipe, wipe. Begin washing again.

Now that this is the third time I’m washing, not only am I cleaning dog drool and puke, but the sugar that had fallen into the cracks of the floorboards is starting to come up, forming a lovely, slippery glaze.

I want to kill the dogs. Not just kill them, but reach my hand down their respective throats and rip their intestines out. No intestines=no puke, no diarrhea, no problem. Oh, calm your jets, any lunatic animal activists who might be reading; I said I wanted to do this, not that I did. I’m a loon who actually cooks for my dogs.

Obviously, the woman in that ad didn’t actually own any pets. Or sugar. Actually, I don’t own a mop. They take up space and smell foul after you use them a few times. So all this washing the floor was done with a sponge. When I thought it was reasonably clean, I gave up.

All the time I’m wiping and washing, I’m thinking of the bottle of Bailey’s tucked behind the vinegars at the back of the fridge. I deserve a shot, right? Not a perfect Friday Night Madness, but I can make do. Only now I open the fridge, moving the yogurts, the soy milk, the vinegars. I’m ready to join Big Senile Dog and start crying, errr, drooling. Guess what? No Bailey’s.

“Husband, did you drink my Bailey’s?”

“What Bailey’s? We don’t have any.”

Steam is now starting to escape from my shriveled fingertips. “The bottle in the back of the fridge.”

“Oh. I drank that a long time ago.”

“You don’t even like Bailey’s. That’s why I buy it for me.”

“But it was in there for a long time. If you wanted it you should have drank it.”

I’m now entertaining visions of ripping out Husband’s intestines. This is the point where Mrs Fringe’s head asplodes.

Got up this morning, took the dogs for a walk, came back into the apartment to realize the floor didn’t look or smell clean yet. Anyone have stock in Murphy’s Oil Soap? You’re welcome.

Sugar and Spice (Madness song) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Mrs Fringe is a Dirty Stay Out

English: Natalie in Fur Cape (ca. 1905) – A portrait of the writer and salonist Natalie Clifford Barney. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s true, I left my apartment at 5:15 yesterday afternoon, dropped Flower Child off at Mother In Law’s apartment, clip clopped to the train station in a kick ass pair of boots, and didn’t get back home until 9:30. I was invited to a reading at a lit bar down in the East Village, very cool. Even had a gin and tonic. Look Ma– it’s me, Virginia Woolf!

The East Village is definitely outside of my usual zone these days. The only time I have reason to find myself there is to go with Nerd Child and his guitars to the super secret, super cool luthier off of Avenue A.

Mom’s Tattoo Heart (Photo credit: Smeerch)

I was going to take a picture of one of the piercing/tattoo parlors and text it to Man Child, asking his opinion of whether or not I should get a new tattoo while I was in the neighborhood, but alas, coming out of the train station I turned the wrong way, went East when I should have gone West, and had no time to play. You could blame my advancing age for the misdirection, but instead, I’ll blame the annoying train ride.

The subway was unexpectedly packed for early evening on a Saturday. Maybe due to the recent cab fare hike. So there I was, smashed onto the 2 train, making my way downtown. The other passengers were a typical New York mix; young, old, all ethnicities, styles of dress, and of course, aromas. A particularly ripe group of young men were squooshed right next to me, looking like they were coming from a soccer game. Or basketball. Or polo, or something. Mrs Fringe doesn’t follow athletics, couldn’t tell the difference between golf shoes and football sneakers if there was a publishing contract on the line.

I don’t mind riding the trains, you could say I like the subway. Sure it’s dirty and stinky, but I don’t have to drive, don’t have to think about parking, and the cost is reasonable. It’s also an excellent time to read or people watch, two of my favorite pastimes. New Yorkers are a skilled, creative lot. We know how to maintain boundaries and anonymity, even when jammed in nose to armpit. Usually.

I honestly wanted to slap each one of that group of young athletes upside their collective heads. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re young Wall Streeters, probably still in the operations departments, putting in their year or three of work experience before going back to school for their graduate degrees. One was holding a neon green bottle of what I assume was an electrolyte drink, to prepare his body for an evening of heavy drinking and peacockery. Unscrewing the cap, he fumbled it into the lap of a man sitting in front of me, not with their group. Glad I don’t have any money on his team. Another kept his backpack on, very rude on a crowded subway car, packed full of shit with yet another pair of sneakers coming out the front pocket, poking me in the chest. WTF? Personal space, guys. But the prince of this crew of entitled young shits, well, he was extra special.

He kept jamming his hands down the front of his nylon shorts. Adjusting himself? Fondling himself? Checking that his dangly bits were really his and still attached? I’m old enough that I could be the mother of any of these kids, but I’m not their mother. As such, I didn’t find his self exploration to be endearing, cute, or thrilling. I think he got the wrong message back in preschool, when admonished to keep his hands to himself. And their conversation, the verbal equivalent of his masturbatory display. My end of the train car got to hear all about his sexual exploits; who he banged when and where, which one of his buddies texted the results to the rest of their crew and everyone else on their contact list, and their tag line after each story, “Did you shower?” Maybe that’s a script reference I’m unfamiliar with, maybe it references an incident from their dorm days. I could barely contain my excitement. Ooh baby ooh baby.

I’d say I hope they missed their stop and ended up lost in Bushwick, but that would be uncharitable. And I think that’s become yet another hipster neighborhood.

Autumn in New York

There are clues that fall is here. More stouts on the menu, pumpkin soup, boots instead of flip flops, and of course, it’s COLD!

And let’s not forget, New York City fail.

Glowing Gingko (Photo credit: Puzzler4879)

Gingkos recognize that it’s fall earlier than the rest of the city trees. Their leaves turn a beautiful shade of yellow, and the female trees drop juicy seed pods all over the sidewalk. If you aren’t familiar with gingko trees, you might not recognize the why I refer to them as a fail. They stink. I didn’t know what type of tree this was until I was thirty, because they’re referred to as vomit trees. Yes, the beautiful “fruit” that drops continually from these majestic glowing leaves, splattering the sidewalks in competition with pigeon shit, smells just like vomit.

See the tourists.

See the tourists head towards the pretty trees, cameras at the ready.

See the tourists look around, turning green, inching and then running away from the smell they can’t locate the origin of.

See the New York women.

See the New York women in their fabulous new boots, legs still bare.

See the New York women hopscotch around the smashed gingko pods more carefully than they skirt a subway grate.

See the problem?

Why do we have these trees all over the city? I don’t know. I always figured whoever planned and implemented the planting of these trees was unfamiliar with this phenomenon, and now the politics of chopping down so many trees would cause too much of an uproar. Except a couple of years ago, I saw the parks department plant more of these grotesque tricks two blocks away from me. Why, NY?

Big Senile Dog is a true chow hound. Completely motivated by food, he will eat anything that is food, could be food, smells like food, etc. Several years ago he ate part of the bottom of a broken bottle on the street. Cause, yanno, it once held food. Even he won’t eat the gingko fruit.

Do you have these monstrosities in your area?

In case you’re thinking we could reap the benefits of the beauty and avoid the stench by planting the male trees, think again. The male trees can morph into female. Like clownfish. Cute little Nemo is quite the sight when he decides he doesn’t want to be Nemette’s bitch anymore, and he grows larger, turns female, and kills her.

And, Have an Orgasm!

Atomic Housewife. 19/52 (Photo credit: Sarahnaut)

Does anyone else know/remember that old joke, poking fun at Women’s Lib? Something like this: Before women’s lib, a woman would get up, make coffee and breakfast for husband and children, make lunches for them to take with them, iron, see them off, clean the house, do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, supervise homework, feed everyone dinner, kids off to bed, sex with husband. After women’s lib, a woman has to get up, make coffee and breakfast for husband and children, make lunches for them to take with them, iron, see them off, go out to work, come home and clean the house, do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, supervise homework, feed everyone dinner, kids off to bed, sex with husband, AND have an orgasm.

Mmm hmm, very liberating indeed.

Is life better for the average woman than it used to be? I think so. There are more choices, more acknowledgement of compromises–hey, I can now be a feminist and still shave my underarms.

Underarm Hair (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There are women who choose not to have children, women who choose to have children and stay home, women who choose not to define themselves by their marital or maternal status at all. Still far from true social justice, because these choices aren’t accepted without question, but analyzed, judged, and whispered about. Being a woman who is a mom, I’m going to focus on that choice.

I don’t know who first coined the term Supermom, or exactly how long it’s been around, but I think it’s fair to say easily 20 years. Conservatively, 20 years. Twenty years of cartoons, jokes, analyzing, and disclaimers. We know better. Supermom is bullshit. Every bit the work of fiction that Superman is. So how come we’re still weighing ourselves against this curvy little lie?

No one human being can fill all roles, be all things to all people. Not even the little people we bring into our lives, or the one person we vow to stay with forever (whether or not forever ends after 7 years or 37). We all wear many hats, juggle different roles and obligations–true for men as well as women. But somehow, we women expect and are often expected to do just that. Especially those of us who have limited budgets, so hiring others to take care of some of those roles isn’t an option.

Even little things. Like unexpected company. I am not a fabulous housekeeper. I’d like to be, but ultimately, once we get beyond the basics of a reasonably clean bathroom and kitchen, it just isn’t that high on my list of priorities. We’re in a small space. There just isn’t a place for everything. But, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to do some extra cleaning and organizing if company is coming. I don’t like surprise guests for this reason. What does this have to do with feminism and supermoms? Well, let’s face it, no one is going to leave my messy apartment and whisper to her girlfriend, “Wow, that Husband is a pig. When was the last time he dusted?” No, the judgement would be more like, “Ugh, did you see that laundry hamper? I wonder when Mrs Fringe last found her way to the laundry room.”

If a mother works outside the home, somehow she’s still magically supposed to take care of all the hearth and home stuff, and be awake, alert, competent, and presentable on the job. And her kids are never supposed to get sick, or have any other needs that would involve taking time off. If a mother is a SAHM, she isn’t supposed to just take care of hearth and home, she had better be Supermom squared, to compensate for her lack of brain cells…err…value…err…income. She’s supposed to do it all perfectly, naturally, organic dinners that are gastronomic delights to children and adults alike, sandwiches on bread baked that morning, tastefully decorated home, never a stray sock left behind on laundry day, homemade and prizewinning Halloween costumes, and of course, oodles of time to volunteer at the children’s schools. Because, yanno, if you’re a SAHM, what do you do all day? You must be bored. *Do not confuse intellectual boredom with free time* Only, if you are bored, don’t ever say it out loud, because well, you could get a job and really do something. Never mind the mind numbing fatigue, and the fact you spend every single day being looked down upon and devalued, and there’s no such thing as a day off or quitting time.

So no, I’m not Supermom, and I don’t know one woman who is. Those who come closest are those whose annual income allows for quality, long term nannies/babysitters, full time housekeepers, and spouses who are also big earners and highly educated–socially progressive. We all know this, all make fun of the term, we judge ourselves and judge each other–but we all still beat ourselves up for not being this fictional character.

Delany wrote issue#203 of Wonder Woman, the women’s lib issue (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Score: Life- 80932, Mrs Fringe-1

This is what I want to do today:

DSC_1878 (Photo credit: Lannuit)

This is what I will do today:

NYC: 8th avenue windows through a bus window (Photo credit: Susan NYC)

Not the Chinese food part, the waiting for and riding the bus in the rain part.

Husband is doing much better, still in the hospital but I expect he’ll be able to come home today. For the record, I called it. Cardiac cath done and stent placed yesterday. When I left him last night, he was feeling much better. Between massive quantities of blood thinners and the new stent, a little more rest once he’s home, he should be a supercharged Husband by Friday. Unfortunate, because I’m so tired I was seriously tempted to shove him out of his massaging hospital bed last night, and get some sleep for myself. Those beds aren’t cushy, but they’re pretty comfortable, you don’t even need any quarters to get the magic fingers to start.

I spent a good chunk of yesterday in the waiting room next to the Cath lab. Went downstairs to the cafeteria for a cup of tea and a snack, got all excited because they actually had dill pickle chips. My favorite! After the first hour, the couple sitting next to the one outlet in the room left, so I was able to settle in and charge my phone. I didn’t have my laptop with me, but I had remembered a book and my iPod, so I had something to do. What I didn’t have was what I needed–earplugs. People, hospital waiting room does not mean party room. If you’ve got company to sit and play the waiting game with you, great. But oh. my. God. There was one group of women who literally didn’t stop yakking and laughing over each other for a second. There have been times that I’ve sat in waiting rooms by myself, and times that I’ve had company. It’s nice to have company, it can be nerve wracking to sit there–especially once you’re an hour past the estimated wait time. Shut the fuck up! I thought I showed remarkable restraint when I didn’t get up and shove my now empty pickle chip bag into the open maw of the loudest one.

Description unavailable (Photo credit: the real janelle)

I’m not going to think about the laundry that’s piled up, the cleaning that needs to be done, the aortic stenosis they saw during the cath yesterday (yanno, by the valve already replaced once), or the look on Flower Child’s face just now as I told her we have to get and go again today. Still no earplugs, but my blinders are on, and I’m doing what I need to do.

Freakin’ Dog!

Doesn’t look like she could make so much trouble, does she?

In case I haven’t been clear, I call her Little Incredibly Dumb Dog for a reason. She is sweet and soft and smooshable, but wow. With all my doggie experience, she is the dumbest dog I’ve ever known, let alone owned.

Despite my best efforts, at over a year old she still isn’t completely housebroken. Every couple of months I’m lulled into thinking we have found success, “hey, it’s been two weeks since she had an accident!” Inevitably, the day comes where she forgets to wait and yuck, yuck, yuck. Let’s just say my floors have never been cleaned so regularly. Which sucks, because my floors aren’t actual hardwood, they’re a pressboard veneer so they can’t be refinished.

She also still loves to chew on things she shouldn’t. Mostly items that belong to Flower Child and me. I’m down to one clip for my hair. I am not an inexperienced dog owner, she has many toys of her own to chew on, treats, balls, regular walks, and Big Senile Dog to ~~pester~~ play with.

You can and do learn a lot about the neighborhood when walking dogs. One thing I’ve learned is that apparently we’ve got a huge number of folks practicing Voodoo.

Voodoo Altar, French Quarter, New Orleans (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s the only reason I can think of for the regular scattering of chicken bones on the curbs.

Well, there is that one guy who sits on the concrete fence with a styrofoam platter of chicharrones de pollo (Dominican fried chicken), but he’s always very helpful, pointing out the bones he’s tossing on the asphalt, so I can pull the dogs away. Thanks, buddy! Seriously New York, wtf are you doing? This isn’t the ’70s anymore, there’s a trash can on every corner. Chicken bones can choke a dog, puncture their intestines, and kill them. Skipping those extremes, the bones also cause puking and excessive pooping.

So, when I woke up this morning and saw a dark oblong object on the floor next to one of the dog beds, I assumed it was a Little Dumb Dog log. This was before I’d actually made it into the bathroom to squirt some contact lens solution into my eyes, everything is kinda fuzzy for me that early in the day.

I was happy to be wrong for about a tenth of a second. There on the floor was the chewed remnants of the bluetooth for my cell phone. I loved that thing. It made my life much easier and more convenient than Little Incredibly Dumb Dog does. Easily one of the top five gifts I’ve gotten, and it’s definitely not in the budget to replace it now.

To the moon, freakin fluffball!

Chicken Bone (Photo credit: goodiesfirst)

City Wildlife

Detour (Photo credit: krossbow)

My intention was to post about blogging today, the direction I started in, where I’d like to be going with this, and of course, how very thrilled and excited I still am that one of my posts was chosen for yesterday’s Freshly Pressed.

Instead, I’m off on a traditional New York rant, much the way Man Child is on a quest to hunt down, trap, and kill the cockroach he saw in our kitchen cabinet a couple of hours ago.

I know, roaches are a fact of life in NY. I think they’re pretty much a fact of life in every city; the more humid the city gets, the more densely populated, the more roaches there are. That doesn’t make them welcome, or even tolerated, guests in MY apartment. I’ve been pretty lucky over the past 12 years or so, very few have found their way into my kitchen. We won’t discuss the building’s basement, or the way I can hear their little legs scritch scittering across the sidewalk when I’m walking the dogs at night.

Three or four days ago I spotted a big one in the kitchen. You know, the really big ones people like to call water bugs, because it makes us uncomfortable to acknowledge these critters can grow to be so large. I promptly ran to the local drugstore, bought three boxes of Combat baits for my shoe box sized apartment, and planted them throughout the kitchen cabinets, against the walls, in the bathroom, some for good measure in the bedrooms and entranceway. Like a welcome mat, only it says get the fuck out.

This morning, to my horror, we saw another one. I know what infested means, and I know this isn’t it. I’ve been in apartments where the roaches are doing the hustle across the kitchen floor in broad daylight, the backstroke in the puddle left by a leaky bathtub faucet, and have an ongoing performance piece happening on the wall of a bedroom. That’s infested. This is me having a hissy fit.

Roach (Photo credit: Are W)

A fit that sent me back to the drugstore for yet another box of Combat, a tube of gel incase any of the suckers are claustrophobic and don’t want to enter the trap to eat the bait, and got to work with Man Child and Nerd Child. Everything is out of the cabinets, 2/3 have been cleaned with bleach and water, and half the cabinets have new traps laid with gel applied in strategic cracks and gaps.

Wonderful. Only now I’m so nauseous from breathing in bleach and poison fumes, I’m not quite sure how I’m going to get up to finish the job. Man Child took a break and went to the store, so he’s beat, too.

Frankly, I don’t care how superior they are on the evolutionary scale, I hate roaches. Sick or not, it’s time for me to get back to my mission, and send any of these strays packing. Yuck!

Amarillo Tx – Dynamite Museum – Roaches Kitchen (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Fun with the Internet

Mrs Fringe is experiencing technical difficulties. (Pause for long, obnoxious beep)

A friend sent something to the email connected to this acct. I tried to get into the email, but realized I couldn’t remember the password, or where I wrote it down. Yah, yah, terrible. I tried changing the password, and the little auto reply said it would take 3-5 days.

Fine, I set up a new email, changed my email here on wordpress, asked my friend to resend. This morning, I find the change didn’t go through? get saved? here on wordpress, but I had received a reply about how to change the password for the first email. Fine.

Except, following the instructions for that email puts me into a cyber loop. Go here_____, verify, verify again, click the link for an email to be sent to your recovery email. Recovery email: Go here_____, verify, verify again, click the link for an email to be sent to your recovery email. Recovery email: Go here_____, verify, verify again, click the link for an email to be sent to your recovery email. Recovery email: Go here_____, verify, verify again, click the link for an email to be sent to your recovery email.

“Bang Head here” (Photo credit: unwiederbringlichbegangenes)

*FIXED, I THINK

Dear Mama Fringe,

Mail box (Photo credit: Mark Sardella)

I hate the mail. Nothing good ever comes. Well ok, sometimes there’s a nice surprise. As email takes the place of snail mail, it’s beginning to be the same. Bills, obligations, and bad news.

Sometimes I check my email as it comes in, others, especially in the summer, I only check it once a day or so. Last night it occurred to me I hadn’t checked it all day, so I decided to throw off any chance of a decent night’s sleep by opening the inbox.

Boring back story that would be eliminated or cleverly worked in if this was a piece of fiction: I have one connection in the writing/publishing world. Perhaps it’s more of a connection to a connection, but still. This is a brilliant, well respected, well established writer. One evening we were chatting, and she offered to look at some of my work. Sure there might have been a glass or two of wine involved, but it was an offer I took her up on. I know there are many unpublished writers who work every hint of a connection like a cat working over a cockroach, but I’m not one of them. Not because of any sense of decorum, probably from fear and not wanting to ruin the original relationship in the first place.

There was a time in my life when I diligently pursued a writing career. I woke up and did some editing every morning of the previous day’s work, then wrote for at least a few hours, then spent time crafting and mailing query letters, partial submissions, etc. I belonged to a writer’s association, a critique group, and attended a few conferences. Rejection is part of writing. A big part. If you take each rejection to heart, stop now and give up. Some people find journaling is more their speed, perhaps even blogging.

I didn’t develop the courage to take myself seriously enough to take these steps until I was well into adulthood. Some might say middle aged. I had three children and a husband when it occurred to me my dreams of being a writer were never going to happen if I didn’t DO it. Writers write. And they submit. I was lucky. Many writers submit for years before seeing more than a form rejection–and if you aren’t familiar with the business, there are nuances to rejection (though not as many as new writers believe). There are form letters, form letters with an encouraging handwritten note written across the bottom, personal rejections, rejections with an “invitation” to submit other work; then there is interest, requests for partial manuscripts, hopefully followed by requests for full manuscripts, hopefully followed by an acceptance.

I received encouraging handwritten notes, personal rejections, invitations to submit other work (does everyone assume every unpublished writer has 12 other manuscripts under their bed?), requests for partials, and even requests for fulls. No acceptances, but I felt like I was getting somewhere, had some encouraging exchanges with a few agents. These were in response to a stand alone romance I had written. Definitely a romance, but off the beaten path. Publishing is a business, very, very difficult to get an agent to take a chance on one of the unwashed and unpublished. Besides the romances, I also write short stories. Not romantic at all, more gritty slice of life type things. Some might call them literary fiction, but in my head that term is linked with being a writ-aaaah. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a forty thousand year old gal from Brooklyn (and not the new, artsy Brooklyn), these are not terms I would use for myself. I submitted a few of my shorts, but no bites. I’ve heard the odds of getting published in a respected literary magazine are smaller than the odds of winning the lottery. I have no BFA, MFA, or known and respected literary workshops in my credits. I just write.

Typewriter (Photo credit: toastytreat87)

Cue the violins. I was continuing submissions and had begun work on a new manuscript. Not a romance, but a full length piece that followed the style of my short stories. Husband had surgery that didn’t go as expected, rocked my world and my confidence. My parents’ voices rang in my head, how nice, you’re writing, get a union job! Then Flower Child got sick. I was devastated. The day she was released from her first PICU stay, I found a rejection letter for a full in my mailbox. How could I care? How could I have faith in myself, my writing, and the publishing world–yanno, good-writing-trumps-all, if I couldn’t have blind faith that my daughter was going to continue breathing? I stopped submitting, and the work of writing became sporadic.

So here was this potential opportunity in front of me, and a younger, tougher me was knocking on my brain, “Remember when you used to be a person?” My friend liked and respected my work, we even had a meeting like grown ups–oh, how wonderful that felt. She passed one of my stories on to the fiction editor at a well known, high brow magazine. What if???? Friendship only goes so far, and she wouldn’t have risked her own reputation facilitating the submission if she didn’t believe the work was quality. After many months, I received a reply yesterday, seen last night.

Rejection. A nice, personal rejection that praised the writing and the story itself, but alas, she didn’t see the piece as right for the magazine.

Shit.