Category: The Wandering Writer

It’s Not You, It’s Us

Now that my little writing room is set up, I decided to sort through my files and clear out anything I didn’t need so I could make room for new story ideas, new first drafts, and all the other scraps of paper I collect.  It’s my favorite thing about moving – the purging.

As soon as I started, though, I got hung up reading my collection of rejection letters.  Yep, I keep all my rejection letters.  Though I rarely get rejection letters anymore.  Oh, I get rejected all the time, but with online submission managers, the only feedback I get these days is “declined” typed in a little box on the computer screen.

I miss those letters.  They were tangible proof that I had been doing my job.  Submitting.  But more than that, in losing the rejection letter, we’ve lost an occasional human connection with the reader.  There’s no longer any hope of those prayed-for handwritten comments.

In going through my little scraps of “no thank yous,” I found dozens and dozens of, “Thank you for sending us your work, but it’s not right for us at this time. This isn’t a reflection on your writing.”  Well, it sure felt like it.  And “We regret that your manuscript does not fit our current editorial needs.”  What the hell does that even mean?  Oh yeah, it means I was rejected.

But in going through all these “it’s not you” form letters, I found some that I remember thrilling me at the time.  Like the one from the late Jeanne Leiby when she was still the editor of the Florida Review.  “This came really close – and the only real reason we’re not taking it is because we already have too many child narratives for our current issue.  But please send again.”  Or the next one from her, when I sent another story:  “Thanks for sending again.  This came very close.”  Cream City Review sent one that offered other markets that might be better suited for the piece of flash fiction I had submitted.  South Carolina Review sent a letter that said, “Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read… Though it does not suit our publication needs, one of our readers found an interest in your work and would like to encourage you to submit more of your work to our magazine.”  And Lunch Hour Stories, now sadly gone, sent a full page printed with all sorts of reasons listed for possible rejection, with little boxes for them to check.  And mine was checked, “The narrative is strong, but not quite what we’re looking for.”  And then circled, “Send us more of your work.”

All of those rejection letters were sent in response to stories that have since been published.  Which is one reason I keep them.  They remind me that possibly it’s not me after all. Maybe sometimes it really is just them.  I also keep them so I remember that there is kindness out there in publishing land, that some editors send little scribbles on the printed forms that make a writer euphoric.  Thanks to all of them, and also to the ones who’ve toughened me up by just out and out rejecting me.

A Room of My Own

I can write anywhere.  On a train, a plane, a bus, in a coffee shop or restaurant, at the beach or by a pool, or in a cabin in the woods.  I’m lucky that way.  Or maybe it’s that I’ve never been able to be picky – I have to take my writing time where and when I can get it.

But when I do have a place to call my own, it’s great to have a space dedicated to writing.  I moved into a condo recently, and spent a while fixing up my office so it has the right energy.  (I know that sounds new-agey, but there is something to be said for a space you believe has a certain vibe, even if it’s all in your head.) First I spent a day painting it green – I find green to be energetic but also not too frantic, if that makes sense.  Then I got my desk arranged just right, with all my writing totems and the pictures of my girls.  It’s not finished yet, but it’s getting there.

I love my desk, but I use it mostly for revision.  When I am creating new work, I write sitting on a bed.  Yes, it’s lousy for my back and shoulders, but it’s where I’m most comfortable. Legs curled up, laptop in front of me.  I can lose myself for hours that way.  And the awesome thing is, when I get tired, I can move my laptop to my desk and stretch out on the bed for a little nap.  An afternoon nap is one of the biggest perks of being a writer.

I also have a corkboard I haven’t hung yet that I got when I dedicated a space to my work years ago.  My first writing group gave me slips of paper filled with good wishes – creative blessings, I guess you’d call them.  I take it with me wherever I go – it reminds me of those wonderful writers (Jennie, Kate, Burnley, Roberta, Michelle), the women who helped me believe in my ability to string together sentences.  Wish you were here to bless this room, ladies.

Baby Got Back(up)

5 years ago my house in Keswick, VA was robbed and my laptop was stolen.  Years worth of work on that computer, and I hadn’t backed up for 6 months, so I lost everything I’d done in a half a year.  I was devastated.  It’s bad enough to have someone go through your home and mess with your things, but to know that so much hard work is gone, well, that’s just about unbearable.  Yeah, insurance eventually replaced the laptop, but no one could ever replace what was on the old computer.  That was gone for good.

5 years later, and the replacement computer’s hard drive is bad.  Thankfully, I learned from my mistake back then, and I back up at least once a month, usually once a week, on an external drive.    So I haven’t lost any work.

I read that Hemingway’s first wife Hadley packed up all his manuscripts, every page he had written, and took them with her on a trip to meet him in Switzerland.  The case containing all of that work was stolen off the train before she even got out of Paris.  He had no copies of any of it, and had to start everything over, all of his short stories and novel beginnings.

Hemingway turned out fine, but don’t you take chances with the product of hours of sweating over a keyboard.  Back up your work, and back it up often. I hope you’ll never need that back up, but if you do, you’ll be glad you took the time.  I know I am.