As of this writing I have four stories out on submission to various markets. I don’t mind telling you, I feel like a bit of a badass. A year ago I had only submitted two stories ever, and those only to one market each, and promptly locked my form rejections away where no one would ever see them. These days I have a different philosophy about the rejection carousel. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still terrified of rejection and I likely always will be, but each time I send a story out I feel a little less like the entirety of who I am is being judged based on a few words on a page.
Steven Gould had a great piece of advice for us at Viable Paradise that has really stuck with me. As a writer one of the most important things you can do is tie your self-worth to something, anything else besides your writing. I’ve thought about this advice since October, and decided that it’s absolutely true. If every story is an integral part of who I am and I send it out to the world where it is summarily rejected and/or ignored, how can I expect to feel good about myself at the end of that process? It’s a struggle for me to dissociate myself from my work, but hopefully it will get a bit easier with time. I also have to find another hobby to pour myself into to take the place of writing, now that it’s become more of a ‘job’.
On the writing front I’ve been making good progress, but not much that I can share here if I want to send them at some point. I did have a germ of an idea for a new character over the weekend and wrote a little bit of a profile story for her that I thought I’d share.
Mikaela slipped out of the gauzy black dress with her back to the only mirror in her bedroom. She’d envied the women in the orchestra their beautiful gowns once, but not anymore. She couldn’t point to the exact moment when that had changed for her, but part of her wished she still wanted the black tie charity events and their careless elegance. More and more, the gorgeous dresses felt like a yoke holding her to a life she despised.
Despised was perhaps too strong a word. She still loved the music. When the rising and falling notes surrounded her, the charade made sense. The rest of the time, she hardly felt like a person at all. She was a work of art: a damsel in a lovely dress with her knees wrapped around an expensive musical instrument.
As she walked into the bathroom, she let her hair down from the intricate braid atop her head; the gemmed comb just another adornment that made her faceless amid the other captured, beautiful things. She couldn’t look at herself in the mirror until she’d washed off her makeup. Under the decorations, she was the woman she recognized after all.
Mikaela pulled her hair back into a pony tail, leaving the shorter pieces to find their own way about her face. She scrubbed her neck and chest with a washcloth, removing the perfume and powder that helped disguise her. When she felt completely like herself again, she was ready. She padded back into the bedroom and dressed again, this time in her own clothes rather than borrowed finery: black jeans, a white button-down shirt, and her favorite leather boots. She spared a glance for her cello case where it rested on the table, then stepped away from that part of her life, for the weekend at least.
That’s all for me. Hearts and puppies and all that jazz,