Great Hosannas

Glancing through a recent issue of a scholarly journal this morning, I stumbled over a quote from Fyodor Dostoevsky that encapsulates how beautifully some writers have expressed faith. A former atheist, he wrote this in response to criticism of the affirmations of faith that pepper his final novel, The Brothers Karamazov:

". . . it is not like a child that I believe in Christ and confess Him. My hosanna has come forth
from the crucible of doubt."

How stunningly and simply wonderful. "My hosanna has come forth from the crucible of doubt."

As someone who has never seriously doubted God's existence or goodness, it would be hard for me to claim this quote as representative of my own life but for the wide swath the word "doubt" cuts through all our lives. Doubt isn't directed only toward God's personage or the tenants of faith. Doubt comes in many forms.

Worrying over a future that God surely holds in his hands.

Questioning difficulties that God allows to descend like a pestilence.

Grumbling about things which, although expected, have not happened.

I'm guilty of each of these forms of doubt -- guilty daily. I can't seem to face even a minor challenge without bemoaning my misfortune. And even as I throw a high-class pity party, I'm well aware that millions and millions of people face struggles that I couldn't begin imagining, and the weight of all their doubts must be crushing.

But it is then that faith becomes most precious.

Without trying to elevate the significance of my own problems, I know that I have crawled closest to God when I've felt doubt seeping through my bloodstream as if I were hooked up to an IV. In that sense, my hosanna has come forth from the crucible of doubt. This is something I need to remember as I inch forward in a life that is currently filled with tortoise-like progress, so slow it feels as if I still have twenty-three miles left to go in my marathon yet I've been running for months.

Whether or not my speed -- or lack thereof -- should be cause to doubt, it is cause for doubt. After years breezing through school and college on my way to fulfilling my "potential," I sometimes question, am I not meant to achieve the dreams I've always believed in with a faith so strong it was second only to God? (Humor me for a moment if you will, and pretend that 23 is not the early morning of my future, but somewhere closer to the dusk of my possibilities, because that is what doubt tries to convince me.)

I don't know which dreams will come true and which will fall flat on their face, and struggling with that uncertainty is another slice of doubt.

And I simply have to shrug, continue the pursuit, and bring forth hosannas.

Because my dreams, fulfilled or forgotten, are all as perfectly aligned as the planets, and not a single one can fall out of the orbit God has placed it in.

". . . what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. . . ."

Hamlet 3.1

Hope as a Metaphor

For several weeks, I've been as wrapped up in my new project as a burrito is wrapped in a tortilla. Energy and creativity wise, it has been almost all-consuming, but I'm still madly in love with tangling words into poems, spinning stories into screenplays. I've been writing articles and content and brainstorming for ideas for my project, which is more than just satisfying; it is fulfilling, knowing that I'm working toward a very workable goal, another great dream that God is already blessing.

But just as SEO began shoving poetry from my mind, and just after I'd decided not to attend a writing conference I'd had on my calendar for months, I got another glimmer of hope that my writing career may move forward when I least expect it.

It came in the form of another rejection, from the H.A. No damning with faint praise, no "we wish you the best in your efforts to place your work elsewhere." Simply: "The sheer volume of excellent poetry we received this fall has been overwhelming and we've had to turn away many wonderful pieces. I highly encourage you to submit your work again for the winter issue." Even though they weren't accepting any of my poems, or promising to take any in the future, that e-mail reached out tantalizingly, like the first autumn breezes that crackle through goldening leaves, promising the beautiful days to come.

And that feeling that tickled up my spine is as much poetry as woven words, in my mind: hope, cornflower skies, moonlit jazz, inspiration, broken shells on the beach, paintbrushes, anticipation, laughter, trees ripe with fruit, perseverance, appreciating and embracing every new day's challenge.

I've begun looking at life as an ongoing poem. Every event becomes a metaphor, a volta, a fluttering synecdoche that reminds me even I am greater than the sum of my achievements would currently suggest. I'm trying to live as I want to write, with a controlled abandon that stretches its arms out toward possibilities that looked too faraway -- until I realized that it takes an outstretched arm to bring the dream within reach.

Slow Progress is...Progress. (But Slow.)

I am, once again, waiting.

But in the meantime this time, I have lots to do that actually brings me closer to my goal, instead of lots to do that hopefully leads to goal-fulfillment. For all my interest in the articles I'd been seeking out over the late summer and early fall, my excitement now is for something more tangible, something palpable that is only a matter of time and work away. And the work itself is more straightforward than trying to write a hooky query. These days, it's filling out business forms, and researching markets, and learning all about SEO -- but also writing, of course. There's not so much "luck" involved with this work, but still a whole lot of God in determining how I'll succeed.

I get completely giddy some days because I can't believe the adventurous turn my otherwise monotonous (albeit pleasant) life has taken. My mother likened my new attitude to my delight that summer afternoon when I had a Kool-Aid stand in Pennsylvania. When I was eight.

That's not to say that my mother thinks I'll only make Kool-Aid stand money from my new venture. But it'll be a while before I start making more than Kool-Aid stand money. Once it happens, D. thinks things should go quite well for me, and I hope he's right -- because this job I've created for myself blends so many things I've always been interested in as well as introducing me to brand new fields. It's a much steadier, more reliable plan than freelancing, and it's something he and I can work on together.

Earning money with it will make it much more enjoyable than it already is, though. Here I am, nearly a week past my 23rd birthday, still complaining to A. that I have to dip into my savings account for a Starbucks run. That's how it will have to be for a while longer, as I'm throwing my energy, time, and creativity into a project more interesting than I could have imagined -- a project with a bigger potential payoff than any strictly-writing career turn could ever bring me, short of a bestselling novel or a blockbuster screenplay.

For a while longer, I can afford savings withdrawals for Pumpkin Spice Creams and Peppermint Hot Chocolates. But if the money doesn't start within a few months, I'll have to go back to Kool-Aid.

Dream Revisions

Growing up, my plan in life, as far as my career is concerned, had always been to write what I wanted to write -- novels, short stories. A movie here or there. Poems. In high school, my hackles went up each time someone asked what I wanted "to be" when I grew up, because I knew, inevitably, as soon as I told them I wanted to be a writer, the response would come back, "Oh, a journalist!"

No, ma'am. Not a journalist, not a reporter. A storyteller, via whatever medium.

But as the end of college came around, I started thinking about the necessities -- you know, bills, gasoline, food, designer jeans -- and I quit snarling at the people who assumed I would be "oh, a journalist" or something else that earns a steady income. For one thing, I'd actually become a correspondent for the local newspaper, and I enjoyed it all right. Even more though, I got tired of well-meaning adults twitching an eyebrow if I said, "Actually, a novelist." I'd had enough kind advice that "no one can make a living" being a novelist. I'm sure a hundred people told that same thing to J.K. Rowling.

So I settled on the idea that I would be a journalist. Part of me cringed at that, simply because I didn't want to prove right all those people who'd predicted that job for me. Still, I had my sights set high. Even better, I wanted to freelance. Like novelists, freelancers don't exactly have a steady source of income, per se. It's still a risky job. But top glossies awaited, and that was a pretty exciting goal, even if it wasn't as glorious as the New York Times bestseller list.

Pretty quickly, I got almost as tired of telling people I was trying to start a freelancing career as I had of proclaiming my intention of becoming a novelist. There were plenty more raised eyebrows, although everyone was dubiously encouraging this time around. I felt meant to write, even if journalism itself was an earlier compromise. At least it's a respectable field, not quite as crowded with alcoholic, suicidal divas as the literary world.

But I still wanted to write screenplays more than exposes. I wanted to publish poetry more than profiles of important people.

Something else I realized during my whirlwind months of career jump-starting is that I don't have a starving artist complex. I am not willing to work in a dirty kitchen somewhere so I have time to write my self-proclaimed masterpiece that might never see daylight. Slumming through a bunch of low-paying assignments for tiny magazines isn't my idea of a good career start, either. And that's pretty much what I felt I had to look forward to as my "career" progressed. It was going to be a very long time before the glossies came calling.

When I really accepted that, I really began moving forward with another idea I came up with this summer. It still allows me to do plenty of writing of various kinds -- in fact, good writing is what I'm counting on to sustain this new project, to make it unique and useful and attractive. But I won't be begging publishers to take a look at what I have to write, or worse, what little I've written. I'll be my own editor, with my own projects to manage, and it won't be just my writing that I rely on for money, but bringing together a specific set of skills I've always wanted to utilize -- but, in pursuing a straightforward writing career, I'd been convinced would have to remain untapped.

Here's to new adventures, old dreams, and stirring them up into an exciting blend of idealism and newfound practicality....

Resetting the Course

How quickly things can change....

Take writing, and the well-plotted-but-unlikely-to-go-smoothly career path I'd always intended to follow.

I'm trying something new. I'm loving it. I'm venturing away from what I always thought I wanted, and quickly learning that what I wanted was never so concrete. I'm discovering that I can break through my old self-imposed boundaries and still keep what I always thought I wanted at the forefront.

I'm reveling in the fact that I am actually a much more well-rounded person than I gave myself credit for!

My life suddenly feels like a huge new adventure. Nothing has changed -- but so much has changed.

Impatiently Learning Patience

I want to learn to be patient, and I want to learn it now.

Although it's only been a couple months since I started submitting queries, poems, stories, and essays in earnest, not counting the huge batch of poems that I mailed last April, I'm a tad impatient as I wait for the magazines' responses.

WARNING: vast understatement detected!

Since the beginning of August, I've submitted to over 20 publications. Of those submissions, one has been returned. The others float amid overwhelmed editors' slush piles.

Meanwhile, I feel like a horse that has grabbed the bit in its teeth and runs off in spite of its rider's best efforts to rein it in. Like a bit-grabbing horse, I don't want to wait -- in this case, I don't want to wait for God to give me exactly what I need; I want what I want, now. The logical, faithful side of me know publications will come, and they'll come at the right time. For whatever reason, this apparently isn't the right time yet. The irrational, panicky side of me wants to make it happen. Now!

God must think it's pretty important for me to learn patience first. And I of course respond with, "Oh, yes, I'd love to learn patience, but couldn't we condense it into a five-minute lesson? I haven't got all day."

But as it turns out, I've had several months to spare.

I don't quite know why I'm struggling so much with this: I've believed writing is what I am called to do ever since I was five years old. That doesn't mean I'm supposed to be a regularly-publishing author before I hit 23, I guess, but I don't doubt that it's still what I am meant to do with my life. What I've got to do now is just let go of the bit -- keep working -- keep submitting -- keep waiting -- and start following wherever the reins lead me.

And learn patience.

After all, publishers have learned so well how to wait (and wait, and wait) before dashing writers' dreams.

Writing's High Cost

Yesterday I decided to scrap my plans for applying for Internship A.

The fact that it pays nothing, that I'd have to work a job on top of a 40-hour-a-week internship, and still eat through my savings just to pay outrageously high rent in D.C. isn't something I can justify as a responsible use of the leftover scholarship money I've been blessed with. That money is not only my cushion, it's a potential start-up fund for a business, money for a new car, or the nest egg to pay my bills until the writing career gears up.

So, yes, the opportunity would be great, but with no guarantee of writing gigs and money to follow, it would definitely give me a great experience, but possibly but leave me in a deep financial hole.

However, I will still apply for Internship S. It is an extra month, running from January-July, also in D.C., also with a major national magazine. But this is a paid internship! And it's my dream magazine.

Getting this internship will be much harder, though: instead of accepting up to five interns per term, as the other magazine does, this magazine takes only one at a time. Instead of being open to only undergrad students and recent graduates, as the other magazine's internship is, this internship is available to recent graduates and recent graduates of grad school programs. The competition will be more intense, but the reward is far higher. Even better, this is a straight-up writing internship. The other one is an editorial internship with some writing thrown into the mix.

I've got a fallback plan in the works, too. If I don't get Internship S, or if I were to get it and for some reason choose not to take it, I'm going to apply for another writing opportunity. But this is another one you've got to pay for.

My dad suggested I look into residencies at the Atlantic Center for the Arts, which is fairly close to home, and offers several three-week residencies throughout the year, giving artists the chance to work with poets, fiction writers, playwrights, composers, photographers, and performance artists. I've got my eye on a residency in April with a poet I admire.

The catch is that it costs $850 -- but financial aid is available. Financial aid! I'd thought those days were over forever, barring grad school.

And speaking of grad school, a residency at the Atlantic Center for the Arts would look quite nice on my resume in the event that I apply to MFA programs in the next couple years. I'm going to need every bit of help I can get in order to get accepted into a top poetry program like UVA or Vanderbilt.

MFA programs are terribly expensive. I've decided that another thing I can't justify is paying several year's worth of an average person's salary for a masters' degree that probably won't increase my income. So in order to get my MFA, I'll have to get into a top program, like UVA or Vanderbilt -- where they only accept 3 or 5 poets each year, but give them free tuition and a modest stipend.

But I'm excited, ever-optimistic, and most important, completely in love with what I want to do -- and even with what I am currently doing, in spite of the fact that it's not bringing in the big bucks. I love brainstorming for new article ideas and turning my interests into newspaper stories; I love taking a break from drafting query letters to crank out a sudden poem; I even love those query letters now, and choosing which published clips should accompany each query.

If this is what I am meant to do, as I've believed it is since I was five years old, I know success will eventually follow as long as I am persistant.

I'm at peace that this is what I'm meant to do.

The Waiting Game

I didn't get into writing for the money, but it would be nice if I weren't losing money each month as I pursue the writing venture....

I'm not losing much, but my expenses are also so low right now that getting just about any article published in any magazine would pull me up out of the red. For a couple months!

With the number of queries I have out to magazines (and they're pretty decent queries, if I say so myself), I think the odds are actually in my favor that something will get accepted. And I know I can sell every one of these story ideas, whether the magazines I'm currently querying want them or I have to go elsewhere.

What's grating on me is just wondering how long it will take before I even hear back from any of the publications.

Some magazines leave their reply time open-ended. In other words, "Perhaps eight months after we receive your letter we'll drop you an e-mail that, no, in fact, we've been sitting on your query all this time after making the decision not to publish it seven and a half months ago."

Or they promise a speedy reply: "Because we know your time is valuable, it's out policy to get back to you within two months no matter what, even if we haven't had a chance to open your letter yet!"

Or, my personal favorite, they warn you they won't reply at all unless they want to publish your piece: "For the first six months, your guess is as good as anyone else's whether we're going to accept your story; after that, each months that passes should deepen your conviction that we dropped you into the trash bin with everyone else we don't already have on speed dial."

Oy.

Rewriting Paris

Working on a story, I needed to have a character tick off a few well-known works of art, and I wanted the paintings to be from different periods and movements. Although I'm pretty familiar with -- well, dozens of artists and their works, I began browsing the Internet for inspiration.

As I went through several of the most famous artists -- Van Gogh, Da Vinci, Monet, Picasso -- I looked at their work with interest, but mostly, just searching for the right name.

Then I glanced at one particular Van Gogh painting, "L'eglise d'Auvers-sur-Oise," and at the credit following the painting's name: "Musee d'Orsay, Paris."

Even before I read the credit, of course I knew I'd seen that painting in person. I took A.'s picture in front of it! (No flash, of course.) But actually reading "Musee d'Orsay, Paris" made something sink in that I don't think had fully hit me before. Much as I've thought back on my trip to Paris -- relived the visit to Giverney, tromping the old Rive Gauche cobblestone streets, muttering "Pardon, excusez-moi" as I squeezed through packed cafes -- looking at this photo of a painting on the Internet was the first time I froze and thought, "Oh my gosh. I really went there."

Before, I would breathlessly say, yes, I visited the place I've always seen in many of my favorite movies (Charade, Moulin Rouge!, Casablanca) and read about in some of my favorite books (A Moveable Feast, Tender Is the Night, Shakespeare's All's Well That Ends Well, set just outside Paris). But it took seeing on the Internet a painting I saw in person to shake me into the realization that, sightseeing aside, going on that trip was a pretty significant event for me as a writer.

Before going, I'd always just kind of ignored the fact that I'd never been anywhere outside the country. Since I was little, I had traveled up and down the east coast of the USA, hitting almost every state this side of the Mississippi. I knew I was more than qualified to set stories in any of those places.

But I wanted to write about things a little bit more exotic than rural Pennsylvania or the outskirts of Atlanta. How could I really feel I was doing my job as a writer if I only described what I thought a place would be like, based on photographs from National Geographic, or other writers' descriptions? If I'd never set foot in one of the world's busiest cities (hey, I don't remember New York from when I was eight months old, so it doesn't count)? If I'd never been any place where the primary language wasn't English?

Although I have only left the country once, and I have a very long list of places I'd like to visit, just this afternoon it finally dawned on me that going to Paris accomplished a little bit of my goal.
Not only did I get to experience some of the best museums in the world, and get a tempting little taste of life in the City of Light, I got a jolt of confidence from my time there, too. I feel somehow more qualified to be a Real Writer. I've eaten at the same restaurants where some of the greatest writers ate. I've visited the cemetary where some of the greatest writers are buried. I've walked the same gardens where some of the greatest writers strolled.

My ultimate goal for my Paris experience is to turn it into a manuscript of poems. Poems, even more than photographs, are what I believe really capture a moment. I believe I had some moments worth capturing, as I suddenly realized -- thank you, Van Gogh -- all over again today.

And I want to relive those moments over and over and over again.

The Inevitable Kiss-Off

I really hate form rejection slips.

I really, really hate getting two in one day.

Prose Like Buttercream

Last night I watched a romcom, a total chick flick, with a couple of great chicks. The movie made me smile, made me laugh, made me sigh (like any normal chick) over romance and weddings. But mostly, it made me think, "I could write that. I could write that even better."

Yes, alas, it made me want to try my pen at chick lit, one of the few genres I haven't touched in my hundreds of false-start story experiments. It made me want to write happy, quirky, semi-predictable love stories where everyone says only clever or awkward things, live in apartments entirely too large for their salaries, dress impeccably, and figured out relationships in the span of ninety minutes.

In other words, froth. Like buttercream squirted out into little rosettes.

Excepting what I wrote in elementary school, one stab at a humorous novella in middle school, and one farce I wrote for AP English, I've always felt the need for a deep overriding theme in my fiction. No comedy, no pure entertainment. We've gotta have pain and grit and Big Issues in fiction! Occasionally this has led my mother to ask me if I'm depressed.

But I think I could write a chick flick if I decided to. In fact, I think I will. It would be such a nice change of pace, and I think I might actually get it done before too much time had passed because I'd enjoy it, instead of feeling bogged down and moody every time I let myself slip into the story. I'll keep working on other projects, but I've never managed to have just one...or ten...projects going at once.

I'd like to shake things up a bit. While I work on a screenplay centered on a marriage that's reeling after an affair, I'll sidetrack into this story to whip up a dashingly suave modern-day Prince Charming, who, of course, will chase after the heroine (a young woman who has great hair and even better luck). I do realize I'll need to come up with some sort of problem to drop in the heroine's lap. But instead of having her dealing with, say, her beloved sister's tragic death, it'll be something along the lines of a funny little love triangle involving the childhood friend who has just popped back into her life, or her plight to find a decent sub-letter for the the summer. Something light.

Bring on the buttercream.

The Planning Stage

When I sit down each week to plan new story ideas, I worry that I haven't got enough "real world experience" or specific expertese to be the best person to write any given story. I haven't worked for some bioengineering firm or traveled through the Middle East sampling ancient tribal couisine. And naturally I would never try writing a story about either of those things.

What I've done is divided my story ideas into several catagories, and I base the articles I'd like to write on what I do know a bit about, and maybe even more importantly, what I am interested in. My "Kids/Families" story list is pretty long, and boosted by my 8-year-nannying resume and previous stints working at preschool summer camps. I've got a bunch of wildlife, nature, and animal (and especially horse-related) articles in the works, too. And I also have quite a few travel story ideas, although so far, my expertise there is pretty much limited to the Eastern Seaboad!

I want to be a writer because that's where I think my talent lies, in addition to my interest. So I'm pretty good at twisting a querry letter to make it sound like I really know what I'm talking about, even if my knowledge comes primarily from research and a only few minutes of firsthand experience! But I am confident that as I write more and research more, I'll pick up more areas of quasi-expertise.

If all goes according to plan, soon I'll be debating which experiences I will have to leave off my next cover letter for lack of page space, instead of fretting over the few that I have so far.

Long-term, I'm not too concerned about my writing future. It will happen. It's just the here and now that is so challenging, especially as I'm still having to convince myself, much less editors who don't know my name, that I actually deserve to write a certain story.

Before too many more months, though, I hope I'll have a tidy list up upcoming publications, and the confidence that comes with them.

Yes Soliciting!

I get so excited whenever I get a new manuscript or query ready to mail off. Regardless of the fact that it will probably come back a little worse for wear in a month or two, I love the anticipation I feel each time I lick another envelope. There's always hope. And if that fails, there's always next time....

There's a metaphor for sending off manuscripts that compares the work to a child going off to its first day of kindergarten. I doubt I feel anything like the anxiety that hits mothers at the start of the school year. Or maybe I'm just going to be a really laid-back mom.

Because, no matter what publication I'm soliciting, I don't expect rejection. It always kind of takes me by surprise, and sometimes it stings, while other times I just shrug and get another envelope to send the piece out to another magazine. And get excited all over again.

I like to tell myself to savor this stage of my career while I can -- while editors don't know who I am, while they aren't yet knocking down doors to get to me.

Quadruple-Minded Un-Focus

If there is one thing I struggle with when it comes to writing and completing tasks it is...well, it is completing tasks. Frequently, I don't, at least when it comes to writing.

I'm a flighty-muse-follower -- one day, I am totally wrapped up in bashing out a short story; the next, I want to brainstorm new freelancing ideas, when, low and behold, five minutes later, I remember that I need to make some more edits to my resume. That can make it a mite hard to get things finished. While I'd like to give myself points for constant activity, my actual productive output will lag if I follow this routine, rather than sticking to my weekly goals.

And right now, I feel even more pressure to get things published -- quickly! -- because I'm convinced there will be plenty of accomplished writers vying for the internships I want.

So, magazines, prepare to be inundated with my latest, greatest, almost-not-quite-finished works!

All Swept Up

To further extend my horribly cliched metaphor, it seems that I might suddenly go from treading water to catching a tidal wave.

A new opportunity dropped itself in my lap two days ago. Or, more appropriately, into my inbox.

For several months now, I've been on the job-update mailing list of a few companies. In addition to Monster.com's daily, usually worthless offerings, I find out what's available in TimeWarner's global network (TV production position in Hong Kong, anyone?), and MediaBistro keeps me in the publishing world's loop. I rarely bother to check on the specifics of any of the jobs that land in my inbox, generally deleting each e-mail after a cursory glance. But two nights ago, sitting in front of the Olympics and giving my computer a tiny fraction of my attention, I felt my stomach spin itself into a knot when my eyes fell onto an editorial internship that I think I want, and even more, think I might need.

What a change from my determination to never have a "regular" job and just plunge into life as a freelancer.

Let's say, hypothetically, that I get one of the five spots available. It would mean moving to Washington, D.C. from January through June, and working 20-40 hours a week -- probably closer to 40 than 20 -- without a salary, because this is an unpaid internship. It would mean slashing through my savings just to pay rent and buy groceries. It would mean finding roommates, something I've always dreaded and avoided. It would mean living through a cold winter for the first time, missing all the youth events I help plan each year, not spending time with my family, friends, and horse, and hardly seeing D. for half a year.

It would mean my plans have completely unraveled from what they were only a year ago.

There is no certainty I'll be one of the few people selected for this internship, and there's no stipulation that I would have to take it even if I were chosen. But that doesn't change the fact that even just considering it is terrifying.

Forward Motion

And now, some words of wisdom from that bastion of pop-punk deep-thinking, Relient K:

"…I see that it’s good / to experience the bittersweet / to taste defeat / then brush my teeth / experience the bittersweet / to taste defeat then brush my teeth / cause I struggle with forward motion / I struggle with forward motion / we all struggle with forward motion / cause forward motion is harder than it sounds / well every time I gain some ground / I gotta turn myself around again"

Can anyone figure out the title of that song? You have one guess.

Only one.

But yes, at last, with a couple of pieces in the mail, a new query sent today, and a couple more ready to go next week, I can heave a sigh of relief that things are finally happening. Strictly in the sense that I'm getting my work out -- don't think anyone's asked me to sign a contract or anything. Most likely, I'll just have a few more form rejection slips to pop into the "Poob" box S. gave me this spring, but I prefer to stay positive and be completely stunned every time a new rejection arrives.

"What?!" Gasp! "How could they have turned down my story/poems/essay? It's as entertaining as anything that magazine published last month! And as well-written as anything they've done in the last year!"

Righteous indignation does, on occasion, stave off otherwise overwhelming self-pity. And yes, that was an intentionally verbose, rhyming, alliterative, ridiculous sentence.

(I'm feeling particularly inspired after reading the finalists for this year's Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest for the worst opening line to a novel or story, which you can read here: http://www.sjsu.edu/faculty/scott.rice/blfc2008.htm.)

Of course, since I'm not trying to win a bad writing contest, I'm attempting to write well -- even if it's just a query e-mail to an editor low in a magazine's pecking order. "They" say those e-mails and letters are often the most important writing beginning freelancers do....

Needless to say, I've got my fingers crossed. Figuratively speaking, of course; crossed fingers would make it pretty difficult to do the rest of the writing I need to get to over the next few days.

Doggie Paddling

Hmm. I'm moving up in the world.

At least now I have a solid writing plan -- thank you, D -- I can put in action (inaction?!).

And I'm finding some comfort in one of the best's resilience as she searches for a job this summer. By her own estimation, she has gone from Plan A through Plan H and had to come all the way back to Plan A again through no fault of her own. Through it all, she keeps praying and plugging away....

I can relate, but in my role as a would-be freelancer, my own procrastination and timidity are to blame every bit as much as interviewees who won't return calls or reply to e-mails. Actually reaching out to magazine editors who don't know my name, and sending them nothing but newspaper clips, is terrifying.

(Magazine editors, I've heard, aren't overly fond of getting their fingers ink stained.)

But they'll never learn to recognize -- and, of course, love -- my name and I'll never get any magazine pubs unless I make some sort of first contact.

So it's time. Queries, fillers, and short features will be my new best friends as I fight to jam my toes into numerous glossies' doors, and although I expect them to get pinched a few times, I am going to get some of these doors opened. Eventually.

With some concrete short-term goals mapped out, I'm taking tentative strokes toward the career I've always wanted, and for the first time I think I really am moving forward instead of merely staying afloat.

Treading Water

Tomorrow marks the three-month anniversary of my college graduation.

Since then, I've traveled farther north (just south of Iceland), south (Miami), east (Paris, France), and west (California) that I'd ever been in my life. I visited the oldest National Park in the country, Yosemite; climbed to the top of the Eiffel Tower; spent a week building houses with Habitat for Humanity on the Katrina-ravaged Mississippi Gulf Coast.

And yet I feel like I haven't gotten anywhere.

I've taken up yoga. I've nearly finished a screenplay. I'm developing an idea for a book.

But I don't feel like I've accomplished anything.

For some reason, I guess I thought as soon as I graduated college I'd miraculously have writing gigs galore. Never in my life have I wanted a "regular" job, but now I know I'm not going to feel, or be able to live, like "regular" adult until I have a "regular" source of income.

And I still plan to make that happen through writing -- freelancing for magazines, newspapers, and any other options I scrounge up -- but in the mean time, I don't feel like I am making any progress in life. Sure, I've traveled across the country and across one ocean since I finished college, but I wonder -- cynically? practically? -- where has that really gotten me?

The experiences and memories of these trips are wonderful assets as I try to start swimming into the rest of life, but for now, while I'm treading water, they just seem like fun but useless experiences and pleasant but unhelpful memories.

Hmm. If I just put them to work in my writing....