I’m known for doing things quickly. Even with a limb difference I type 70 words per minute (strangers often comment on my speed in cafés). I sometimes finish 300 page books in one sitting, and if you think that’s impressive you should see me vacuum.
I was raised by a mathematician, so I’m always calculating the most efficient way to get from Point A to Point B. And I was raised by New York City, the first place I lived as an adult. The city taught me that any activity could always be done faster, and the faster you did it, chances are the more you got rewarded. New York City is infused with efficiency, from the subway system that moves at a quick clip, to the pedestrians on the sidewalk that will definitely glare at (or shove) lollygagging tourists.
I love so many things about having a writing practice, but navigating the inefficiency and patience required to sit with open ended tasks each and every day is one of my greatest challenges. Combined with the uncertainty of knowing if anything you’re writing is … well …. going anywhere — well, it makes for a maddening combination.
I am most comfortable when my to-do list looks like this:
Make dentist appointment
Gather tax documents
Write Lucy a thank you note
Buy stamps
These things can be checked off. The activities have a very defined beginning and end. You drive to the store, taking the fastest route. You buy stamps — just try to get in the quickest line. Then you’re done. Mission accomplished!
On writing days my to-do list looks like this:
Stare into the void of a blank computer screen and prepare to sit for hours with an activity that can’t be magically checked off a list at the end of the day and you may never know when it’s done because it’s basically never done it’s just an ongoing realm of exploration that you inhabit for the rest of your life …
… Excuse me while I go grab the vacuum.
***
I’m in a period of waiting. A period of close-but-not-quite. I recently received my fourth personalized rejection in a row from a dream publication. (A quick aside for non-writers reading this newsletter: literary magazine rejections come in tiers. The lowest tier is just standard boilerplate language, “thank you for applying but this isn’t a good fit.” A personalized rejection says something more personal, like “please send us more of your work” or “this was considered closely.” It means that whoever has rejected your writing has taken just a little extra time to time to let you know that they liked something about your work. There’s even a website where you can check what tier your rejection falls under1. Welcome to the madness.)
My fourth tiered rejection in a row. It feels vulnerable to admit that, to say “listen to my expertise even though I’m not where I want to be yet” — but in my early writing days I would have been served well by other writers who weren’t afraid to show their process, to show their almosts and not quites, instead of letting everyone see the highlight reel and not the work that came first. If there are any writers reading this who are also in a period of close-but-not-quite, know that you’re not alone.
Last month a writer-friend sent me a submission call for a literary magazine that was curating a special issue on disability. I love when this happens because it prompted me to start an essay that had long been percolating in my brain. I worked on it for a few weeks but then reached an impasse. I knew the ending wasn’t landing. I wasn’t even sure I had an ending.
So I did what I always do: I gave it to my husband, who is my first reader, and always seems to know what I’m trying to do with my work. “Can you read this for me?” I asked. “I’m hoping to get it ready for a submission window that closes next week. But I can’t quite figure out the ending.”
I went out of the room while he read it (it makes me nervous!) and when I returned a few minutes later he looked up and said, “You don’t have an ending yet because you haven’t lived the ending yet. You could speculate. But you don’t know the ending.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I’m reading it correctly,” he said gently. “You’re asking yourself a question that you don’t know the answer to. You might not know the answer until one of the characters portrayed in this essay gets older.”
“But this is due next week!” I yelped.
“Well, it may be years before you know how to end this essay.”
I sighed heavily because I knew he was right. I’d had the same thought and I’d pushed it away, desperate for something to submit to this issue. I thought immediately of a tweet I screenshotted from one of my favorite poets, Chen Chen. He wrote:
“Sometimes poems take a long time because I have to grow to meet them where they want to be.”
(You can substitute the word “poems” with “essays” or “memoirs” or “short stories,” etc.)
I didn’t make the deadline for the literary magazine submissions call. In fact, it has been months and I still haven’t finished that essay. None of my other essays were right for this particular opportunity, so I watched the deadline pass and felt like a failure. Like maybe I’d missed the exact subway car that could have taken me to a brand new destination. Like maybe the time I spent on this draft was time wasted, time spent arranging words on a page that nobody will ever see.
But I’ll continue to be patient and know that with patience comes growth. I don’t know when I’ll finish this essay, or when my tiered rejections will become my next acceptance, but I know I’m going to be a different person when it happens. And what a gift that is.
Until next time,
Allison
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https://www.rejectionwiki.com/index.php?title=Literary_Journals_and_Rejections (Enter at your own risk!)