Interpretation of a Rejection Letter

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Alicia Writes, Letters, The Junk Drawer7 Comments

It happened.

My first rejection letter darkened my inbox this week.

I submitted an article to a journal and truly, truly, truly I did it to get over the fear of actually sending something off for consideration.

Well, let me tell you, I am exquisitely good at lying to myself.  When I saw the message in my inbox, my heart flipped and fluttered at the sheer prospect of my piece being published.  I opened the e-mail and as quickly as it flipped and fluttered, my little heart sank.  I swear I felt it drop down to my stomach.  I didn’t know how badly I wanted to be accepted.

Until I wasn’t.

I have included my rejection letter sans identifying information because I love this journal even though it doesn’t love me back.

After you read it, don’t go firing off comments about how rejection is part of being a writer.  I know that.  Being stung is part of being a beekeeper, but it still hurts a little bit.

For your benefit, I have translated editor speak into regular people language.

Ms. McCauley,
Thank you for your submission.  We’d run out of toilet paper and it was the perfect substitute. The editors have read and considered your piece and, unfortunately, will not be able to publish it.  Because you are a ghastly writer and your overzealous use of sentence fragments made the editors want to claw their eyes out. The current editorial team is currently coming to the end of its tenure and the few remaining slots have all been filled with other pieces.  No way in hell were the current editors going to publish drivel like that in their swan song issue.  Seriously, no way. We are sorry we can’t offer you better news, but we just can’t because your writing is that bad, and we are sorry for the significant delay in getting you this decision as the editors made their difficult choices, but we had to allow enough time to pass it around the office so that everyone including the UPS man could mock both you and your article, but we wish you all the best as you continue your writing, if that’s what you’re calling it.  And please stop calling it that. Thank you for your interest in our journal. We hope you will enjoy reading pieces by writers who are by far your superior.

Kind Regards,

Editorial Assistant, the one who drew the short straw and had to figure out a polite way to tell you that your writing is dreadful.  Maybe you should consider a career at Safeway.  By the way, your outfit sucks, too.  I haven’t seen it, but I’m confident that it does.

So there you have it, the first in what I’m sure will be a long line of rejection letters.  I’m heading to Safeway today to pick up a job application.

LOVE, Part 2

On By Alicia McCauleyIn The Junk DrawerLeave a comment

Last night after I wrote about the LOVE Statue in Philly, Terry and I had a conversation about the value of small vs. global acts of love.  Giving someone a coat or supporting the mission that gives away hundreds of thousands of coats-which is the better way to act in love?

In my mind, both are important and actually I’m not sure you can have one without the other.  I think about the Gap’s RED campaign against AIDS, and Nicholas Kristof’s continued work to expand gender equality, and Youth to Youth’s dedication to creating dynamic young leaders.  They all started as a seed of an idea in someone’s heart and mind.  One person decided they could make a difference, that they indeed would make a difference.

So, the niggling question is this?  What am I going to do?  What is my part in this life I’ve been given?  For now, this is what I’ve decided.  I will continue to seek out small opportunities to show love in my own circles, but I will also support people who took their seed of an idea and grew it into an operation that helps people in places I’ve never been, people living in circumstances I cannot fathom, people I could not otherwise reach.

My photo of the LOVE statue was far from perfect.  It was everything I didn’t want it to be.  It was a glimpse into the gaunt face of homelessness.  In response, I choose to commit small acts of kindness in conjunction with using my resources to support organizations that embody what it means to love.  If my money becomes their money, if my time becomes their time, and in turn if their arms become my arms then my reach knows no bounds.  And to me, that’s a perfect picture.

LOVE

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Writing Project6 Comments

 

The famous LOVE statue in Philadelphia was not what I’d expected.  The fountain was dried up and the corners of its mouth overflowed with wads of garbage.  I went to see the love piece three different times during my stay in Philadelphia, hoping each time to glimpse the fountain fanning cool sheets of water behind the crimson letters, hoping my meager photographic skills would capture just the right angle, just the right light.

Each click of the camera left me struck by the clusters of homeless men and the occasional homeless woman living in the park so known for its proclamation of love.  They were huddled in masses of faded grays and browns on the park benches and against the corners of statues of somebody historic, I’m sure.  It was not the background I’d hoped for my storybook photo of love.  Some men zipped themselves into sleeping bag cocoons and others flung their words at each other, their anger knifing the air and making me quicken my pace as I walked by.

Writing those words I’m ashamed because that’s what I did.

I just walked by.

I, the pious seeker of the perfect picture of love, just walked by, sometimes with a prickle of fear shimmying down my spine and a look of pity angling down my nose.  Not once did I stop to offer my gloves, or the few dollars wrinkled in my wallet, or the coat that usually hangs stuffed amongst many in my closet.  I went looking for love and I missed it.  I missed it completely.

I dream about the LOVE statue and in my dreams I am the kinder, more compassionate version of myself, the version I wish I was in my waking hours.  In my dreams I cock my head at the same angle as the crooked O atop the E.  I tilt my head and ponder the statue, ponder what it means to really love.  I wake and my neck twinges with pain from all my dreaming.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and desperately hope I don’t miss the opportunity to love again today.

The Blanket

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Alicia Writes, The Junk DrawerLeave a comment

I tuck under the green blanket you bought me in Mexico when we were much younger, when our faces were unlined and our eyes unclouded by what would become our history.

It is here on the couch, toes wiggling free in the fringe at the bottom of the blanket, that I write.  Propped up with a pillow behind my back in the red walls of our living room is where I am a writer, where I am the truest value of myself.

It’s where I write about teaching and the untainted faces of my students.  It’s where I paint in the details of my town as seen from two wheels.  It’s the place I write about you and I and how we swam beyond pain and have now come up for air in this place of joy.

On the computer I bought with money, blood money, from my dead father, I figure out who I am, what my purpose is.

Faces come to me here in intricate detail, illustrating my life.

In the solitude of our home, I write without veils, with truth so searing that I have to throw the blanket off and let the cool air slap against the sweat gathering on my skin.

This is writing, breathless and demanding, rushing red warmth into my cheeks.

In this version of myself I’m learning to let go, to type with racing fingers, to wander halls of my mind, to slip into the corners.  My destination is unknown and there is a freedom in that.  I can’t help but think that I am secure in that leap because I am grounded in our home, grounded by you.

I remember the day you bought me the blanket, walking in the market stalls of Tijuana after a long day building a church of stucco and tar babies.  We walked a careless pace, eating from taco stands.  The new blanket was made of itchy wool, so scratchy I could not sleep under it.  Instead I piled it atop other blankets.

Fifteen years later it’s been washed so many times, spun through and dried, that all the itchy fibers have been rubbed away.  I press the soft corner to my cheek and I wonder if you and I are the same way.

After a time of cleansing and spinning dry until there were no more tears, we are soft.  You are soft and I press my cheek to yours.  I curl under the blanket of you and write.

What is my favorite subject?

You.

You are my happy ending.

15 Hours and Counting…

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Alicia Writes, NaNoWriMo8 Comments

A day or two before I lead a workshop on writing I come to a point where I’m convinced I don’t know anything about teaching writing.  In fact, I work myself into such a frenzy that I’m convinced I don’t know anything about writing or teaching on their own and that I should quit everything and work the checkstand at Safeway.  The crazytalk runs rampant.

NaNoWriMo is a mere 15 hours away and I’m all a jitter, worrying about plot lines, character names, and the word count.  Oh, the word count.  I have to find 1,667 words a day.  And they have to, like, go together and stuff.

I’m not even sure I know 1, 667 words.  My days are pretty much filled with lots of teachery talk and then random grunts I have leftover for Terry because the classroom has vacuumed up any reasonable semblance of thought I had for the day.

1,667 words a day for thirty days straight.  Egads.  So I’m spending today battling the crazytalk, by eliminating anything that might offer itself up as an excuse not to write every single day.

1. I finished report cards so they wouldn’t be lurking about in November.

2. I’m doing massive amounts of laundry so I have at least enough clothes to wear for the next two weeks.  Terry’s wardrobe is not nearly as expansive as mine, so he might be sporting some pretty odd combinations.

3.  I’m hitting Costco and FoodMaxx in one swoop today.  I loathe grocery shopping, but I can just see myself staring at the computer screen, typing nothing, rummaging in the fridge, finding nothing, justifying going out to eat, and then going to bed with a full stomach and empty pages.

4. I made a playlist that I’m hoping will inspire greatness.  If not greatness, then at least length.  If nothing else, it will send a clear message when I’m in public that I’m listening to music and I don’t want strangers talking to me.  Or touching me, as has happened in the past.

5. I’ve notified everyone in my life that I will be no fun in November.  If you didn’t get that call, consider this your warning.  I’m not letting myself go out and play until I’ve met my daily word count.  And chances are when I do come out and play, I’ll still be wandering the halls of my story.  So, forgive me for November and I promise to be fun in December.

6.  I’ve picked up a Safeway application just in case.