The Creative Person's Guide to Misery

3/29: Update! I got this image from a friend on Google Plus. In an attempt to find it's original source, I came up empty handed. If anyone knows, I'd love to cite it. 

Just Called to Say

You know when you keep putting off calling a friend that it seems strange to call them after months of not talking, but you finally do, it feels like you haven't missed a day?

I hope that is how I feel by the end of this post.

I've started this paragraph a few times, but I can't seem to get going. I think I'm fatigued. Or anxious. Perhaps about my really long to-do lists. Maybe it's my slower work schedule. My freelance contract at ModCloth ended last week. I have lots of time. And lots of to-dos.

There, that wasn't so hard. Ok, it was kind of.

Despite having more time where I can do my to-dos, I'm not able to get started tonight. It's like the long distance race has begun. I can see all the other little runners ahead in the distance, while I sit in a lawn chair back at the starting line. Probably eating something involved peanut butter and a starch.

I think I need a vacation. Good thing we're going on one in February. Where, you may ask? No idea yet. Hopefully a place with water and sunshine and beer. And a big comfy bed.

No updates on my chapbook. I do have ice cream in my freezer. I think I'll eat some of it.

There. I broke the ice. I've reached the end. I don't really feel 'back in the blogging groove' just yet. But that's ok. Now that we've finally spoken, hopefully I won't wait so long before I call again.

Here's a blurry picture of me reading at East Bay on the Brain last Saturday. Perhaps I'll tell you about it next time.

Seriously? Seriously.

I'm grumpy tonight.

I was up until 2:30 last night, unable to sleep, worrying about jobs and life and OMG I'M THIRTY and when was the last time I showered? Yeah. So then I was way too tired to go hiking around Muir Woods with my BFF and her family, who are in town for a wedding. So I stayed home, tried to work on my job stuff, revise some poems. I focused on Weave, did some reading. Finished up work for my last class.

I'm up again. I know I won't be tired for a while. If I try to lay there next to Sal, I'll just feel my heart start to beat out of my chest. I'll hear all the things I say to myself during the day, except all at once, in shouting voices.

I get pissed off when people don't take writing seriously.

Writing is work. Good writing. Sometimes we get lucky. We have that inspiration that strikes us like a big, fat, bolt of creative lightning and we run to the bank with that fucker. We take that shit down to the river and baptize ourselves in the ease of it. Or we should. Maybe when we first start writing, we know it's our medium. It feels easier to us than to our peers. But eventually, we all get herded toward one another as we get older. Some of us drop out of the pack because it's not easy anymore. It's grueling. It's late nights, avoiding sleep, three days without showers, where are my benzos? and thank god for whiskey.

I get pissed off when people take themselves too seriously.

There is this culture of irony and strangeness and distance in writing. I wrote a sentence. It's weird. Look at my weird sentence. Isn't it ironic? No. It's not. It's lazy. It's uninteresting. Where is the depth? Where is the connection? Where is the concerto? Where are my benzos? Yeah, we get people who like to put up a front, be cool. I've just never been cool. Like, I'm so uncool, it's pathetic. But I work hard. I write hard.

But then I get pissed at myself for taking everything too seriously. Every. Effing. Thing.

It's becoming clear to me that I will most likely work at the mall if I don't get my shit together this week. I will explode if I don't write a good poem soon. Mediocre even. Soon, I will eat breakfast for dinner and lunch. I'll sleep through breakfast. This is my life. Waking up and avoiding anything that might make me anxious until bedtime. I work in between. I take breaks. Boy I'm tired. But not tired enough to sleep yet.

Acceptance Rates and a Fleeting Case of Woe-is-Me

UPDATE: Quite literally 20 minutes after post this blog update, I received an acceptance. Apparently all I had to do was complain publicly. 

I hesitate to complain on my blog, mostly because I think a lot of writers end up in "woe-is-me" patterns that only invite more woe. Today though, I really need to whine a little and hopefully gain some perspective in the process.

The year 2010 was a pretty great one for me, publishing wise. I received my first publication in April, and after that they poured in. I even had a week where six poems were accepted by four publications. The year kept bringing more joyful acceptances until the very end, which concluded with three acceptances on New Years Eve. The total for the year was 17 published poems in 13 journals; my acceptance rate was around 27% for the year. Go Laura.

Because of that success, I decided to submit to harder markets in 2011. I also made a goal of 100 journal submissions by the end of the year (to date, I'm 11 behind). I have received four fantastic acceptances, for which I am truly grateful. I love that those poems are out in the world. I love the journals they are published in. But as it stands, I haven't gotten an acceptance since April and I think the standards that were set up in 2010 have ruined me for 2011. Last week I got four rejections. Form rejections at that. Blerg. Current acceptance rate for 2011: 7%.

At least I have a pile of solid poems to edit.

I sent my chapbook manuscript to four contests earlier this year. Three rejections later, I'm holding out on this last one and, when that is rejected, I will do some reorganizing and re-strategizing. I'd like to just get on with it. Do you hear me, Chapbook Contest I submitted to in February? (yes, I know it's not that long ago, but I'm impatient). 

I'm also going through the demoralizing process of job hunting. I spent all of July in a tail-spin from a cross-country move and constant bouts of panic and doubt about my professional qualifications. I barely sent out two job applications. Now I'm scrambling because the fall semester starts in the next two weeks and of course I'm hearing crickets. CRICKETS. Well, I did get into one adjunct pool. That's reassuring. A paycheck would more comforting though.

Today I got notice that my AWP panel was not accepted. I know I'm in a bad place when I can't even go on Facebook because everyone is posting excited updates about their panel acceptances. I hate to admit it, but I sometimes compare myself to others in my field and then think "why not me?" Especially when I see writers younger than me having huge successes. Because the thing is, I don't begrudge them their success; I love it. I celebrate it. But when I go a long while without some kind of vote of confidence, it's easy to turn green green green with envy. And I can't help but wonder if I'm doing something wrong.

Then I read this Dear Sugar column about jealousy and I humbly remember more than a few good things.

I earned an MFA in 2011 (or I will in a couple of weeks, officially). I won the Best Thesis Award for poetry. That was really awesome. I have a pile of good poems that will hopefully turn into solid poems once I get to editing them. I got to participate in a pedagogy forum at AWP this year with some incredible educators and the latest issue of Weave has received an amazing response. Sales are up. We had our largest reading period to date. I am reading my poetry with some stellar writers in the East Bay at the end of August.

But even more importantly, I have incredible friends and family. I'm healthy. my friends and family are happy and healthy. I am finally in the same city as Sal. My best friend is having another baby (this one still gets me). My other best friend returns from South Africa this week (Casandra, I have missed you more than I missed breakfast sausage when I was vegetarian). I am loved and I am lucky - so lucky - to have all the people in my life who give me love.

My rate of love-and-acceptance for 2011: off the charts.

"Stop being so hard on yourself, Laura"

I can remember a particular week in my early 20's when at least five people said to me, "You should stop being so hard on yourself," or "Wow, you really put a lot of pressure on yourself!" At the time, it was the first synchronistic happening that lead me toward learning more about myself, my emotions and my personal motivators. I can't say I'm any less hard on myself now that I'm in my (very) late 20's, but I still use that familiar phrase as an indicator that I need to lighten up.

As writers, we often put pressure on ourselves to do more. I think this is because there is always more to do. Just today, I spent a few hours on an essay, another few hours doing management and business work for Weave, read blogs, books and emails. Socialized on my network. To an outsider, it would seem like I had a productive day. But to me, I feel lazy. I've also watched a couple hours of television and goofed off online. I should have also submitted work to journals, edited some poems, worked harder on my essay, gone out of the apartment for a walk. I suppose I can still do those things. It's only 5 o'clock. Pressure.

Last night I was talking to my boyfriend, Sal, about confidence. So much about my life and how I spend my time is dictated by how good I'm feeling about myself that day. It's difficult for me to accomplish much when I feel I can't possibly catch up. But catch up to what? When did this race begin? Who am I comparing myself to? There are millions of writers, most of whom are more talented and successful than me. But I don't even know if that last sentence made use of proper grammar. Than me? Than I? I'm a terrible copyeditor. I should really learn the rules of grammar and punctuation. Pressure.

If I had more confidence, I would stop this comparison thing. Because while the world and the job market want to make us feel like this is a race, it really isn't. Writing cannot be. Because writing, like living, requires a lot of patience. I won't have all the information I need right away. A journal will take months to get back to me about a submission. I won't be as well read as a lot of people. I got a late start, not having directly studied writing or literature in my undergraduate studies. I did study education though, which puts me in a nice position to always have a job teaching. But I won't be at the same place many other 29 year old writers are. I don't have a book. I'm barely published. I really need to send work out. I should be reading something. Researching markets. Pressure. Pressure. Pressure.

Part of the pressure we feel is invisible. We don't know our competition. While an athlete knows who they are competing against, writers can only imagine our competitors. When I submit work to a journal, in my mind I'm competing with the most talented, successful, ingenious writers in the world. This can make the submissions process terrifying for some. I feel my vertebrae compacting.

Sometimes pressure is good. When I'm trying to fall asleep, I cannot sleep without a blanket. Even when the temperature is 105 degrees, I must at least have a sheet covering my calves. Feeling the light pressure of the cotton fabric comforts me. I feel covered. Less exposed. When I'm feeling the emotional pressure, rather than a back massage, I often just want someone to literally lay themselves on top of me. Strange, I know, but I'll lie facedown and have Sal lie on my back for a few minutes. While I'm there, I can feel my spine cracking and stretching. My breathing is forced and shallow. My cheeks are squished and I can feel my hip bones digging into the mattress. And then he rolls off me, and I breath in deeply, filling my lungs, and I breath out. I breath out all the pressure.

I have not found a remedy, save for my boyfriend's full body squishes, for all this pressure. Sometimes I feel like having a real, honest writer-mentor would be a good antidote. Someone who is working as a writer, who knows how to set deadlines and stick to them. Someone who understands the mind games and the self-esteem and the lack of confidence. A person who can offer feedback and advice when we feel like quitting. Who knows when we've worked enough for one day. Someone patient.

Any takers?