Rejections, Acceptances, & Flatness

Welcome, winsome wanderer, to my wonderful little world. How many w's can a sentence have, right? Oh, not the question you had in mind? I see: you're the negative type. What makes my world so wonderful, you ask? Well, I consider it wonderful, and that’s what matters most of all: having my own nice, wonderfully warm little corner of the world.

The topics of the day are my rejections, acceptances, and flatness.

Yesterday, I submitted a short story titled “Dirt.” to “The Literati Quarterly” (it's their logo up top). Within half an hour, my work was accepted. I also became a member of a closed group on Facebook called “Write to Be,” where I’ve met some very interesting writers and found out about some really cool places to submit my writings. Not only that, but the LQ has actually worked me out of a fiction drought. I’ve not written a short story in years—that I’ve finished, anyway. Great feeling!

Today, I received word from “Cactus Heart Press” that my poetry (which I submitted back in December) “did not fit with the editorial selection this time.” This time? The wording implies that I submitted a different body of poems that were acceptable. I did not. Still, at least the CH suggested I place “this submission in another forum.”

I plan to write more stories, since I’ve pulled myself from the dry spell, and see if maybe the world likes my stories more than my poems. An experiment, really—something I’ve found that I enjoy. I love all the experiment-type questions, too, like: What are the chances? What will happen if you try this instead of that? I have a scientist brain, I guess.

Being a human being as well as a writer, I find that I seek that connection with people—a support group, really. I felt really discouraged today when a certain family member started calling my writing “flat,” which wouldn’t bother me so much if he’d only included maybe a word, phrase, anything that said he had faith in my ability. Nope, there wasn’t any. He only said I was flat, needed to read Stephen King, and stop using so many adjectives. When was the last time he read something of mine, anyway? Over a year or two, I think. He even said that Nora Roberts wrote flat. When did he ever read her?

Reader, I know you’re probably thinking that I’m somewhat shallow, for seeking a connection with people. Well, I’ve never been an absolute loner. If I suddenly found myself stranded on an island, I’d be worse than Tom Hanks: I’d find an emotional attachment to everything, much less a soccer ball. Still, I sometimes wish that family wouldn’t crawl under my skin, but—like someone told me today—I need an objective audience. I also need to focus on the positive and never give up. When I write, I just need to ignore the skeptics, take a deep breath, and jump in. The only support group I need knows who she is, even if she sometimes thinks that I overlook her advice, encouragement, and collaboration.

What’s in store for me next? I’m planning to submit here:

https://press53.submittable.com/submit/25970?step=submission

Wish me luck!

Yonder Sanctuary

The day started with my momma waking me, making sure that I was going to go to church. I mumbled something Tarzan-like along the lines of, “Yes. Get up... 8:30.” Since I’d not been to church since I was a little girl (something that I don’t really remember), I didn’t know what to expect. I mean, I know what church is about. Who doesn’t? Church is all about God, who you can still have a close relationship with...without leaving the comfort of your home. Since I’m an introvert who loves to read, I’ve always preferred staying at home to read the Bible.

If my brother-in-law, Ricky, hadn’t asked momma about going to church, we wouldn’t have gone. I was hesitant at first, because new situations always leave me feeling really off-center, but I decided to go since I knew it would make momma happy. If she asked me to, I would set the world on fire for that woman.

The Burnt Mountain Holy Bible Church is located in what one of my sisters calls “the boondocks.” The church is small and white, without many places to park. The congregation consisted of less than a dozen people, with me and my family about half of that number. Still, none of this deterred me in the slightest. After all, His presence is felt strongest in places and people where we least expect it.

When the service started, we sang a few songs. I shared a hymnal with my brother, though both of us weren’t sure about singing at first. Surprisingly, though he’s the extrovert, I started singing first and he followed. My brother-in-law sang solo a song or two, then volunteered me to sing. I felt my heart stop. Me... sing... by myself? Thankfully, my kid sister, who can sing who I am so proud of, walked up and sang center stage. She didn’t shake at all. I probably would have passed out, or come close.

The preacher did an outstanding job. He touched my soul with the personal stories that he shared, and the energy for life he showed, especially for someone in his eighties. I also loved how he thought of Heaven as “over yonder.” What a sweet Southern man!

Of the verses he read, he chose one that has always resonated with me, and is actually my favorite Bible verse. I memorized it years ago, when I first started learning to read. Hearing this was a definite sign that I was in the right place.

John 3:16 — For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

An hour or so after the church service, I spoke with my sister, Natalie, about how sunlight seems so much cleaner when we know what it truly represents—His power shining down on us. Often, when I’m upset with the world, I often think to myself, “The sunshine is free. I can’t stay upset for long.” Until today, I didn’t really consider what else sunshine means, because there’s more to it than freedom; more than growth. God ensures that, no matter how rough the storm, He will always bring sunshine to link our spiritual connection to him.

Let me close with a poem I wrote today (which actually touches on the themes covered today):

“Yonder Sanctuary”

boondocks church

made the light

cleaner, purer

than it’s been

in ages

long, winding roads

lead to faith, love,

forgiveness

let me hold this

to my heart,

O’ Lord,

until that hour

of yonder sanctuary

Random Weekly Summary 2/8/14

Hello, visitor! 

Thank you—for whatever reason—for stumbling onto my blog. I cannot guarantee you’ll like where my mind goes sometimes, for my mind is mine and doesn’t stay on the same path as yours, though I do tend to wander and we might meet up ever-so-often.

The first topic I want to address today is Book ADD. My life is filled with books right now that have a page here or there read, ranging from “Casino Royale” straight through Montesquieu’s “The Spirit of Laws.” I still haven’t even finished “Atlas Shrugged,” which I started about a year ago—though that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped reading it completely. I don’t think there’s a cure, and I don’t really want to look for one, because doing so would limit my interests. I find interest in just about everything.

Speaking of interest, yesterday I took a personality quiz for work. I took one that wasn’t work-related last year, and came up with INTJ. Well, the one I took yesterday shows that I’m ISFJ. So, as far as I know, the two middle letters are always changing. The first and last letters are constant. Anyway, ISFJ’s are known as the Guardian Protectors, like Dr. Watson, which is odd when considering Professor Moriarty is INTJ.

I found a list of common traits on about.com:

People with ISFJ personality types tend to have the following characteristics:

Reliable, stable and down-to-earth

Enjoys order and structure

Dislikes conflict and confrontation

Kind, warm-hearted and considerate

Practical-minded

Likes concrete information

Very aware of other people’s feelings

Has a great memory for detail

I actually agree with all of these—especially the last one—but I do have moments where I’m not really all that stable. Of course, after some alone time, I usually get back into the groove. Without my alone time, I will admit: I am a bitter woman. The funniest thing (which is also true) that I read about ISFJ’s is the fact that they unwaveringly stick to their guns. I am like that on many issues. Also, the mention of family and friends was spot-on: I cling too tight to those I love, which can seem somewhat overbearing, even if I do mean the best.

On the topic of best, I took the SAT a few weeks ago. The horror story of that, other than the math, is the wait. I have five days to go before I know if I passed or not, regardless of how many nightmares I have. I’m pretty sure I did really well on the reading/writing sections, because that’s stuff I do for fun, but math... ha, ha, ha. I wish there existed an option to opt out of a test, or take another test in place of one you hate. I would definitely take a social studies test over a math test. Or... they can like... give me a test on math history, with Euclid and all that jazz. But... no... there’s obviously a ton of math involved in obtaining a bachelor’s in management at Kennesaw! Functions, slopes, circumference, diameter, ew. The stuff makes my skin crawl. If they really based the questions on real life applicability, they would give me percentage questions because I shop; fractions because I can cook (basic foods, anyway); or even questions with dollar signs on them—because I LOVE MONEY. Seriously, though, I doubt I passed the math section. I’m not a pessimist. I’m a realist.

Thankfully I have a good boss who is letting me off the day after I find out my scores, which happens to be Valentine’s Day. Who am I kidding? She is more than a good boss. She is awesome. I get the day off; and I get to use the spa day gift certificate she entered my name for last year. Being an introvert, I will definitely be nervous when everything gets started, but I’m determined to have a good time and get my mind off my scores. Tons of love for her, should she happen to stumble onto this blog.

Not so much love for the literary magazines that keep sending me rejection letters. Other than Fjords Review and Literary Orphans, I have been turned down over and over and over again. Maybe, since I’m not mainstream, my poetry doesn’t connect to most individuals. Then again, most lit magazines want money for entries. Money I don’t have. I feel good about finding the free ones—until they send me rejections, which they’re pretty fast about. Maybe I should drop the idea of submitting poetry and try submitting fiction instead, since the writing websites I was involved in before this gig often praised my fiction. Then again, my readers probably did that because they were hoping I’d go to their work and enjoy it, which usually resulted in spending an hour editing. Maybe I should stop submitting completely and focus on editing. I don’t know.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not discouraged or anything, because I’ll continue writing until death come’s knocking, but the letters are always saying stuff like “it’s not what we’re looking for,” which leaves me confused. Or one I received recently “We enjoyed your poems. However, they are not what we are seeking...” You enjoyed the poems? Isn’t taking the time to enjoy something worthy of saying, “Ah, yes, that’s precisely what I’m seeking in my magical literary ball...” How cryptic! If I was the editor for a magazine, I WOULD NOT CARE ABOUT HOW OVERLOADED I BECAME—I would send an email that stated precisely WHY the magazine couldn't accept the piece of work. I sure as hell won’t have a typo in the email—and, trust me, I’ve gotten my share of those from the “high and mighty” editors. After all, a good readership stems from having work from masterful wordsmiths, using each word with sharpest intention. Emails like this only confuse and irritate the writer.

Sorry.

Didn’t mean to rant.

I mean, after all, the strongest point is for me to remain true to myself, above all else. I’m thinking about a self-published book of poetry called “Renee’s Rejects.” Nice ring to it, right? I tried the self-publishing route and didn't like it all that well. At least with this route, despite the rejection letters (usually about three sentences long), I really am enjoying myself.

I shall close this blog entry with my latest reject:

“a living misnomer”

eyes half closed

drifting, diverting

warp speed unravels

cosmos’ weaving

while you search:

a living misnomer

in dead space

somber captain,

event horizons lure you

with black-hole destined

nebulas

seeking a people

starved by stale moonlight

& eaten by time

your travels continue

in the span of my radiated arms

and my solar mouth,

where pulses emit

without end

while you age

& crumble like stardust

RANT: Hunger Games

Hunger Games. Everybody loves it… and then there’s me.

I understand that this series is fictional. Dystopian novels have been written for ages, ranging from Radbury’s “Fahrenheit 451” to Orwell’s “1984.” I understand HG possesses loads of action, and the noble Katniss—the “girl on fire.” I read the first book, so I can say it was written relatively well.

I cannot say that I stand behind what exists at its core, because I cannot get beyond parental sacrificing. Maybe, in this mixed up world, parents sacrificing their children for a “game” is more than normal—acceptable, even. Not in my world. For this reason, I do not approve of HG.

An old saying goes “Art is best when it depicts real life.” My real life depiction involves parents who would never sacrifice me or any of my five siblings to a “game,” where only one kid is destined to come out alive. We might get on their nerves, but they would do as John Wayne, “I'm willing to die trying to keep 'em. The question is, are you willing to die trying to take 'em.”

John Wayne’s dead.

There aren’t any adults willing to fight for their kids.

Everyone’s ok with that. Except me.

Radical me.

 

The Cold, Common & Bond, James

Hello, good people, and welcome to my blog. Recently, I’ve been sick. What a way to avoid beating around the bush, eh? That’s me. I’m a tough pill to swallow sometimes. Oh, gosh, let’s not talk about pills… or that dreaded word “medicine.”

On Friday morning, I woke up with the first signs of my sickness. Did this keep me from going to work? Nope. I hung in there and worked my scheduled five hours, but I became sicker as the day progressed.  Yay, me. I never realized I was the moaning, groaning kind, until Friday afternoon and most of Saturday. I couldn’t help myself, really, because this sickness brought a lot of pain. Okay, okay, maybe moderate pain. I’m not a wimp. I know what pain is. A fiery throat with ears that feels like a ceti eel (Star Trek, anyone?) has moved in, with family in tow, is definitely painful.

Long story short, my sickness devoured my weekend, which included my chance to write.  Early Saturday evening, while watching the sun go down from my bed, I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to win NaNo this year. I am behind in my word count, because I need to write 57,000 to win this year. My dreams were somewhat entertaining, though, because I dreamt about zombies most of the time I was “out.”

Saturday night, I watched the newest James Bond movie with my Dad. It’s not fun watching a movie with someone who blows her nose every two or three minutes. Surprisingly for me, and my snot-filled brain, I was able to follow the plot pretty well: Bond gets shot, survives, goes after messed up bad guy (who really likes M), Bond meets Q, Bond meets exotic Bond girl, exotic Bond girl dies, bad guy dies, M dies, Bond gets formally introduced to Moneypenny, and Voldemort becomes Bond’s boss. Oliver Warbucks is in this movie too. Yeah… adding Voldemort was already too much for me to handle, much less Warbucks.

On Sunday morning, I had enough of the sickness. I was like, “Screw this!” I got up, washed my bed clothes, and rid the bedroom of germs. I managed to stay out of bed for most of the day, and even participated in a strange game that my sister and her hubby brought over. Regardless of my intentions to stay up and about, by Sunday night, my head was pounding (undoubtedly from sleeping off and on for 48 hours—oh, and, don’t forget the snot… we must not forget the snot). Although I enjoyed watching a sugary-sweet & sentimental Christmas movie with Momma, I realized around about 9:30 that I wasn’t going to be able to stay up longer.

The key motivator for Monday was going to work and creating a report using Excel. I’m such a happy geek… when I’m well, that is. *cough, cough* *sniffle, sniffle*

Normal. Pfft!

Normal.

Pfft!

Every time I think of “normal” all I see is a husband with a steady, suit and tie job, two kids (a boy and a girl), and a nice dog that never bites the mailman, all living in a little white house, surrounded by a little white picket fence in suburban, neighbor-wants-to-give-you-diabetes hell.

Again, I say: Pfft!

Society tells us not only to accept normal, but to be normal.

This year, two of my sisters got married. I won’t go into the details. I still love them, but I feel like they’re in a world completely different from mine. I see through the glass above me towards their lives, but can’t find anything to make them fall back down into mine.

ALSO: What in the world is up with all those stares?

I’ve read a lot of books in my time that mention the “sacred language of lovers” and all that bullshit. But, come on! What person in her right mind would think she would be witnessing the actuality of that phrase? Sometimes, I’m a hopeless romantic who swoons when she witnesses the endless love between two people. Other times, I’m a raging, cynical curmudgeon who doesn’t want to see the sacred language displayed in my own living room. Regardless of what I think, lovers are the normal ones, even if the couple I’m referring to can be abnormal at times.

Come to think of it, society isn’t the only one that says couples are normal.

Nature does.

The survival of our species relies on fertile couples to produce screaming, slobbering babies. I feel like I’m window shopping for a puppy whenever I see a baby. Sometimes, I go, “Aww! I want one.” When they start crying and wailing in a decibel you wouldn’t expect someone so small can hold, I feel like I should be wielding a cross or something and shouting, “Back, demon! Back to the pit!”

Maybe my idea of normal (working, learning, writing, reading, etc.) isn’t what society wants, but that’s what I’m giving. After all, I’m sure there were introverted Neanderthals that spent more time drawing on cave walls than searching for a mate. I just happen to like drawing on cave walls more than searching for Prince Charming. Plus, with the way they’re always remaking things in Hollywood, I doubt I’d know him when I saw him, provided I even took a second to divert from whatever I’m doing.

 

"Aren't you afraid to be alone?" I hate this question. Honestly. If I wanted company, I can always call up someone and chat away for an hour and a half. I did that recently. How can someone be alone in an over-populated world? That brings to mind another thing: I’m not too worried about the survival of this species...well, population-wise, anyway. There are over 7 billion people on this teeny tiny planet. So, ha! You can’t use that reasoning on me! Neener! Neener!

Normal.

Pfft!

Aligned for Education

Hello, good people, and welcome to the fourth entry in my blog. The topic today is Adult Education.

Yesterday, I felt as though something aligned.

This alignment started when I received an email from my boss about how Adult Education is being threatened by budget cuts. She asked for those she sent the email to if they would write to our congressman. The letter attached to the email (from the state office) declared the purpose in our fight—our reason for sending the letter: “to reject any proposal that protects or prioritizes funding for defense programs at the expense of nondefense discretionary (NDD) funding—which includes adult education funding under the Workforce Investment Act (WIA).”

Since I have been working on creating several social studies presentations this year, my mind first turned to the Congress of old, the Continental Congress, which existed before America truly ever formed. What would these men think about our fight? I think they would be damned proud, but then I’m sure they would say, “Wait. You’re fighting for education? And this is happening in the country we are fighting to form?” Ok, ok, they would probably use more eloquent words, but you get my meaning. Education is a crucial piece in the backbone of society.

Although I wrote a poem yesterday and sent it to our representative’s legislative assistant, I felt as though I barely scratched the surface behind how inane fighting for education seems to me. I mean, come on, that’s like fighting for fresh air. I didn’t want to throw out a lot of f-bombs at work, but… wow… did I feel them! I unleashed my actual viewpoints on this crazy notion to my siblings, because the second alignment really popped my calm bubble of lovely gooey gushiness for humanity.

The part-time instructor in Adult Education handed me a book titled “High School Self Taught.” I haven’t seen a book this old, and on the subject of education, since I lived in Maw-Maw’s house (she was my great-grandmother on my dad’s side, who used to be a teacher). I will admit the first thing I did was sniff the book. Not like you needed to know that.

After I took in the dark yellow age of the pages, I started reading where all books are meant to be read—at the beginning. The paragraph that caught my interest:

No one doubts that knowledge is power, but it is equally true, as the essayist William Hazlitt said, that knowledge is pleasure. So in these pages [over 900 of them] of world history, of literature and the arts, of the various sciences and the languages, there is both the inspiration of self-improvement and the down-right fun that comes from the acquisition of knowledge.

The introduction goes on to say that those who wrote the book have taught somewhere before, and that they leave out “the classroom detail that is unnecessary for adults.” Look at the words in bold. Really look at them. Words like these rings so true to me, sitting here in 2013, reading them. I am moved by the love for humanity that belonged to those involved in creating this book in the 1930’s, even more deeply that they created it with the adult in mind.

At this point, I’ll bet you’re curious to know when the GED test started. Well, according to Wikipedia (not much of a reliable source sometimes, I’ll admit):

In November 1942, the United States Armed Forces Institute asked the American Council on Education (ACE) to develop a battery of tests to measure high school-level academic skills. These tests gave military personnel and veterans who had enrolled in the military before completing high school a way to demonstrate their knowledge. Passing these tests gave returning soldiers and sailors the academic credentials they needed to get civilian jobs and gain access to post-secondary education or training.

I’m sure you’re tempted to ask me (maybe telepathically), “What are you trying to say?” I admit: I have an issue speaking in broken English because I don’t speak much, nor do I like to speak. I don’t think that I have much of an issue with writing, just that I wanted provide evidence behind what I’m planning to say before I actually say it. (I just now realized that I’m stating my case without really needing to… oh, well.)

I doubt the men who wrote “High School Self Taught” in 1939 could see into the future and find the GED invented with books like theirs obsolete. If they could, good for them! BUT, answer me this: what did they see? THEY SAW THE IMPORTANCE IN ADULT EDUCATION.  If we let Adult Education fall into the cesspool created by this outrageous debt, what is the POINT in having a great defense? As I said earlier, education is a crucial piece in the backbone of society. Without it, society is like that commercial where the guy builds the swimming pool, and wonders what to do with the bolts afterwards.

Yesterday, I felt as though something aligned. Today, I can only hope that this alignment rings true throughout the vibe of America; because, if not, a second opportunity—a second chance at education might never happen for the adults of tomorrow.