I am halfway through a week’s staycation. (It tickles me that someone coined a term to compensate for the fact I don’t have the cash to fly to Hawaii. Or drive to Seattle. Or fill my tank of gas. Yep, I’m sticking close to home just because I love it. Disregard the fact that I’m desperately hoping to sell it.)
Instead of lounging by the ocean at a tropical resort, I decided to focus on writing. While I am proud of the fact that I continue to write at least an hour and a half a day five days a week, this week allows extended creative sessions and the chance to get one, perhaps two, projects shipshape for submission.
But three days before the start of my personalized writing retreat, my spark disappeared. I could blame it on the time change or the left-field dramatics at work or a preoccupation with the welfare of Bobbi Kristina Houston Brown, spurred on by top-notch reporting from “Entertainment Tonight”. Whatever the cause, I felt panic which gave way to despair.
I am a fraud.
Not even up to “hack” standards.
Consider the publication of my first novel a fluke.
“As good as it gets” passed four years ago.
The revised staycation itinerary involved wrestling invasive blackberry bushes, finding a remedy for my dog’s bad breath (“Parsley, poochie?”) and renting free DVDs from the town library (Why is “Dumb and Dumber” in the Classics section?!).
Just in time, my luck changed. Maybe it was the fortune cookie forecast that fell from my wallet while I fueled up on another venti at Starbucks: THERE IS NEW HOPE FOR PROJECTS YOU HAD ALMOST GIVEN UP ON. Funny, but I don’t recall receiving that prophecy. I don’t even remember the last time I ate Chinese food.
After my two and a half hour commute home from work including a soggy uphill walk from the ferry, I checked my emails and read a vaguely familiar subject header, preceded by “RE.” After a few seconds, I realized it was a response to an article I’d submitted to Writer’s Digest last summer [July 27, 2011, to be exact.].
I tried to temper excitement with caution while opening the message. Seems my emailed submission got “a bit lost”, only to be recently rediscovered. (Fitting, really. That quote could be my motto!) The more important remarks: “We love it, and would like to run it in our next issue”. The payment? A pittance, but enough to cover a month of lattés.
The 300-word back page article isn’t likely to have New York editors suddenly following me on Twitter, but the email came at the right time, an affirmation that my original staycation agenda is worth pursuing. It’s great when I can work through my own self-doubt, but I can put that pep talk on hold. And the blackberry bushes can continue to overtake my backyard. I’ve got a query letter to write.
Instead of lounging by the ocean at a tropical resort, I decided to focus on writing. While I am proud of the fact that I continue to write at least an hour and a half a day five days a week, this week allows extended creative sessions and the chance to get one, perhaps two, projects shipshape for submission.
But three days before the start of my personalized writing retreat, my spark disappeared. I could blame it on the time change or the left-field dramatics at work or a preoccupation with the welfare of Bobbi Kristina Houston Brown, spurred on by top-notch reporting from “Entertainment Tonight”. Whatever the cause, I felt panic which gave way to despair.
I am a fraud.
Not even up to “hack” standards.
Consider the publication of my first novel a fluke.
“As good as it gets” passed four years ago.
The revised staycation itinerary involved wrestling invasive blackberry bushes, finding a remedy for my dog’s bad breath (“Parsley, poochie?”) and renting free DVDs from the town library (Why is “Dumb and Dumber” in the Classics section?!).
Just in time, my luck changed. Maybe it was the fortune cookie forecast that fell from my wallet while I fueled up on another venti at Starbucks: THERE IS NEW HOPE FOR PROJECTS YOU HAD ALMOST GIVEN UP ON. Funny, but I don’t recall receiving that prophecy. I don’t even remember the last time I ate Chinese food.
After my two and a half hour commute home from work including a soggy uphill walk from the ferry, I checked my emails and read a vaguely familiar subject header, preceded by “RE.” After a few seconds, I realized it was a response to an article I’d submitted to Writer’s Digest last summer [July 27, 2011, to be exact.].
I tried to temper excitement with caution while opening the message. Seems my emailed submission got “a bit lost”, only to be recently rediscovered. (Fitting, really. That quote could be my motto!) The more important remarks: “We love it, and would like to run it in our next issue”. The payment? A pittance, but enough to cover a month of lattés.
The 300-word back page article isn’t likely to have New York editors suddenly following me on Twitter, but the email came at the right time, an affirmation that my original staycation agenda is worth pursuing. It’s great when I can work through my own self-doubt, but I can put that pep talk on hold. And the blackberry bushes can continue to overtake my backyard. I’ve got a query letter to write.
