bad but inevitable news
I've had a rejection letter (from the first round of poetry submissions, sent out last month) sitting on my desk since Saturday.
I didn't open it until this morning. It was perfectly obvious what it was, and also perfectly understandable; it's a note from a leading poetry journal that routinely publishes some of the best stuff being written these days. Start from the top, blah blah blah ambitioncakes. It happens to be edited by two of my college professors, for whom I entertain a lasting respect and deep affection (and who, as they reminded me in their note, are fond of me). But of course they couldn't take the poems, because they aren't among the best poetry being written these days. Which everybody already knew, of course.
I've been promising myself that this is the low point, that once I opened this letter I would be able to handle the letters that are inevitably going to follow it. I am really hoping that turns out to be more than a convenient fiction, because right now I would rather not feel worse, please. It's not just that my feelings are injured, although of course they are despite my rational foreknowledge that this was the inevitable outcome of this particular submission. It's also that the lazy part of me, which is unusually large and proportionately domineering in a torpid sort of way, is rolling its eyes at the ambitious and approval-seeking part of me and saying "I told you not to bother; look, there's whole minutes gone where you could have been wasting time playing computer games. Where are your priorities?"
It's a good question. I wish I knew. I wish I could pick an answer and stick to it. I wish everything I want to do well came easily to me. I wish I had better job prospects. And, of course, I wish I had a million dollars and the power to magically ensure six seasons of Firefly. Whatever. I'd like to get over myself now, please.
In happier news, I got up the gumption to open The Letter by sitting down this morning and forging ahead on the dissertation. Note to self: being able to say "well, whatever else happens today, I did make progress on the thing that is ostensibly my life's work at the moment" did in fact make it easier to cope with the threat of feeling like a useless idiot.
I'll be back to my cheerfully cranky self by dinnertime, I'm sure. In the meantime, I think I ought to go be productive again for a while - see if I can keep my inner sluggard at bay for a few hours at least. And the new Bettie Serveert album's out, which should provide several hours of happiness after I pick it up this afternoon.