Two out of three of my submissions to Ninth Letter Online were rejected. Those of the two genres important to me, fiction and creative non-fiction. I’m more surprised than upset, I was certain I’d be (electronically) published, though in reflection, I see that that certainty was based in nothing solid. A hunch. Nonetheless, surprise is better than despair, so I’ll take it regardless of its lack of reason.
The upside, if there is ever one to being rejected, is that I have two more pieces to submit to the next few sets of journals. Creative non-fiction seems to be the genre of the moment, so “A Race to Paper, a Race Against Morpheus” goes to Norton’s undergraduate contest (one of my last). Fiction is falling out of favor, so I’ll have to shop “William and Erin” around.
Perhaps it isn’t the best time to be devoting my writing energies to finishing that noir book. It could be worse. I could still be trying to finish that damned vampire book that I started just a few years before everything in the world of pop culture turned to (blood) suck.
Ninth Letter still has one genre not yet declined, I’ve got poetry left. I am not a poet. I don’t think in terms of it, I have trouble reading it, I don’t often enjoy it. The few times I’ve written it felt more like assemblage than creation, like the writing equivalent of Ikea. But, as it bums me out to admit, I’ve had as much poetry published as I have fiction. Wont waa. I don’t think this makes me a poet so much as it means my fiction needs some work.
The summer was supposed to grant me opportunity to write uninterrupted for hours each day, yet so far I’ve done little and littler still creative. I realize the summer’s hardly begun, so I’m not so much mournful as I am sardonically amused. I have more free time than I have had in years and yet I seem to be getting less done. Less of everything, I’ve not even beaten my computer game recently. I’m not really sure what’s eating my time, but I hope it’s had its glut soon, I’d like to get on with the doing.