I feel like I need to say something. I am not sure what it is that I want to say though. Thoughts keep flashing through my head. Not one stops to let me latch on. My inspiration seems to have fallen short. Truthfully I do know what my problem is. I am unsure of how it is that I am going to deal with it. I keep starting to build scenerios in my head and than stopping. This is a dangerous road for me to go down because it starts small and spirals. Every time this happens, I tell myself to not go there. I do not know what the conversations are going to bring. And no matter how much I plot and plan, I do not know what the other person is going to say.
I do not want to return to work. I have been in Customer Service since I was 17 years old. As a waitress, a receptionist, rental and kitchen supplies, taking orders in an industrial setting, and for the last 14 years have worked for the same company in a variety of positions. I am working at a job that does not satisfy me. That does not challenge me so I need to create challenges. I fell into Customer Service by default. It is something that I am good at. Talking to people. Welcoming them. Remembering them. This was not where I was planning to be. A career in writing, that is where I saw myself but the path sorta veered out to the right, crossed to the left and has finally straightened out again.
I recently wrote about how T believes in me. It is time to start to believe in myself and my writing. I recently took the plunge and submitted a poem to the New Reader Magazine. I have mentioned this before and as I type this it has been exactly a month since I sent the poem in. I patiently await a response and am prepared for anything. Rejection is what I am expecting. Not because I do not think that the poem I submitted is not good but because it is my first submission anywhere.
This passed weekend I had the weirdest inspiration. And I wrote a poem that my baby bro told me was pretty good. He was not sure how one goes about measuring a poem as he has never read one before. Which let me know that it actually must be good because this is a man who reads absolutely nothing if he is able to get away with it. (It is due to my wonderful SIL that my niece and nephews are such voracious readers.) I had another poem that fit with this one so I put them together and submitted them.
Of course last night after submitting them I had an ‘omg what the hell have I done? I am so pretentious. Who am I to write about this material?’ I sent a message to K who of course talked me down. She is actually the one who encouraged me to submit Moral Bankruptcy in the first place. The other is called Subvert. Two brand new and unpublished anywhere poems. And now I wait. Again I am fully expecting to be rejected. I submitted to The New Yorker.
Who am I to do this? That is what is going through my head over and over again. How could I have the audacity, an unknown writer, to submit to one of the most prestigous magazines out there? And in my voice I can hear my bro telling me over and over again to jump. Mom is behind him saying JDI-just do it. And most of all there is T cheering the loudest with ‘Mom you can do this. You can do anything.’
I am moving out of my comfort zone. I am proud of the poetry that I have written. Proud of the poetry that I have submitted. Poetry that as of yet has only been read by K and my bro. Proud of myself. I am putting myself out there. For good or bad, I have done it. Go me!