i got a rejection from Witness today. a form rejection. boo.
but i did finish the manuscript i've been working on. tomorrow i will make my comments, and i do have some real ideas about it. and that's the thing. working with writing always makes me happy. my own, or someone else's.
i will chalk up my nonwriterness and nonworkness and nonusefulness to my terrible tirednessnessness.
but i will i swear i will make it to AWP. i need to be around other writers. i need to hear ideas and i actually want to hear people reading. i will make it. i will be the engine and i will chug and huff to the top all the way to minneapolis.
have to look into advertising my writing services. that is the only way i'm going to get the word out. will probably cough up the money for poets & writers.
i've also been thinking of entering the novel in a couple more contests. but i don't know if it's worth it. still need reviews. but it feels like begging. or it feels like spending a lot of money.
the chair is 20% off right now. it will last forever. it is an investment. this is my career. this is what it do. what i will be doing. for the rest of it.
i would ask God to send me words but i don't know if i have the energy for it right now. right now i need to bank all the energy i can. rest. rest. rest.
She spun around in her chair again, still thinking of the merry-go-round. She was twelve before she was brave enough to hang off the side while it spun. Twelve and the bottom of the world would fall out and the center of her soul, between her legs, tingled and sparked. Her granddaddy had built the merry-go-round for the kids at church long before she was born. It was really her merry-go-round, hers, more than anybody else’s. Her mother said her first word was “mine.” Mine reaching for the birthday cake, mine pulling down the cookie jar, smashed, the bear’s broken face in pieces, mine, mine down the long hall to her bedroom, clutching the cookies, all hers. Now she spins and spins and thinks of brown sheets and September, thinks of the oak trees on the campus, how Felix chased her through the park and she stops spinning, her head righting itself, her center swirling long after she stops. She stops and thinks of a mouth on hers, the mouth of a man who belongs to her, belongs. She shakes her head, crosses her legs, almost burning, almost fire, what Felix would do to her, just touching her, in the kitchen, in the basement bleach smell and soap. So long, so long and just one touch, just one. She thought then of taking off her pants, just taking them off, she thought of it but just sat, thinking, wondering, her body open and willing as a tulip, a June tulip, yellow and pleased.