Dreaming

Several years ago I set five goals for my writing: write, polish, learn, attend, and send.

I’m a prolific writer so the first goal wasn’t a problem. I’ve always got a pen and paper—or laptop—in my hands. The second goal, polish, was a challenge. I’m a perfectionist and felt my work was never at its best. With the help of other writers, however, I learned that polishing a story, article, or novel is just that—polishing. Polish, by definition means to buff up. When I spray furniture polish onto my piano, it doesn’t automatically shine. There is, in fact, a dull residue which only after lots of elbow grease—buffing up—begins to yield results.

I began to understand that though my writing starts out needing lots of work to make it shine that doesn’t mean I am doomed to fail. It only means I need to work until I get the results I want—just like polishing the piano.

For me that was a great realization—a blessing.

Since fifth grade, I knew I wanted to be a writer. I just didn’t know it was okay to work at making that dream come true. When I was young I wrote with enthusiasm, then I followed my mother around reading my work. Her response was constantly harsh and to the point: “Lori, writing is not your forte.” She didn’t believe I could become what I dreamed of being, and she feared I’d embarrass myself; her fears became mine.

It took a long time for me to start believing in myself.

Knowing it was alright if my words didn’t shine the first time I wrote them, or when I rewrote them the second time, or even the third, I came to the realization that I could help myself by striving to learn more about writing in general. I began to read more, books on writing and books in the genres I wanted to pursue, thus helping myself meet my third goal. Attend, fourth on the list, involved writing classes and being part of critique groups. I met lots of other writers and would be writers who shared dreams and goals similar to mine.

I become conscious that early on in my life I’d been lead to believe that writing—being a writer—was something you either could or could not do, like walking or talking. When I understood that (just like playing the piano with any degree of proficiency) becoming a writer takes time, effort, and practice I was able to let go of old fears and enjoy the process of becoming.

The last item on my list, send, became easier as well. I analyzed, versus agonized over, rejection letters and resumed polishing before I again sent my work out. In time my efforts paid off. I found many opportunities and enjoyed writing for the newspapers and magazines that asked for my work; it felt good to have my articles, short stories and essays—my own words and feelings—appear in print.

But there was something more, something I dreamed of for a long time: I wanted to write children’s books and novels.

Gathering courage amidst continued opposition, both interior and exterior, I set out once more with my five writing goals. I still have a long road to travel but I enjoy being on that road, grateful to know it's okay to do more than just sit by the wayside and wish.

Count to ten before shredding

by Patricia

The SASE (self addressed stamped envelope) is the author's boomerang -- pitch it in the mail, and it comes right back.

Over the years I have come to accept that, when I open the mailbox and find my name and address, written by my own hand, staring back at me, I have been rejected.

Usually, dejectedly, I will remove the envelope from the box, open it, and cringe as I read the cold, impersonal rejection slip. When I'm finished, I send it to live with the other rejection slips in my office and I try not to think about it. Discouragment, I have learned, doesn't offer much to encourage me into action.

A few months ago, however, I learned an important lesson about SASEs: never take the contents for granted.

I went to the mailbox, and groaned when I saw the 9X11 envelope inside. I brought it in the house and headed for the shredder. I knew which submission the envelope had been mailed with. There was no need to even open the envelope and read the rejection.

I started to tear the envelope in two, right down the center, before feeding it to my little friend, Jaws the Junk Mail Shredder. What would it matter? I thought. There was only a rejection slip inside. No need to even look at it.

Still ... curiosity got the best of me. At least I could add the rejection slip to the stack. At least, after all the effort put forth by the USPS to get my SASE back to me, I could open the envelope.

I opened the envelope, pulled out the letter, and began to read.

It was an acceptance letter.

The moral of the story: Count to ten before shredding your SASEs.

Fear -- cluck, cluck -- of Failure

By Lori Nawyn

I write manuscripts then file them away like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter. Unlike a squirrel’s stored supply, however, my stashed manuscripts do me little good. That’s because I’m not a squirrel…I’m a chicken. I never submit half the manuscripts I write.

At first, I thought I suffered from manuscript rejection anxiety, an ailment I have yet to find a clear and concise definition of. After an internet search, I discovered it’s not uncommon for authors to suffer from such a malady. I found this appeal from John Last, Emeritus professor of epidemiology of the University of Ottawa, wherein he pleads for a colleague:

“Are there any editors aware of support groups for authors who have something original and important to say but suffer from obsessive anxiety that inhibits their ability to pursue their ideas to fruition?...My admittedly rather superficial inquiries about the prevalence of this condition suggest that it is not uncommon among creative artists and writers, which leads me to wonder whether there is/are support group(s) for victims.”

I didn’t have time to attend a support group, even if I could find one. So, I further researched the subject and stumbled upon the following advice, intended to ease the pain of rejection:

“When submitting manuscripts, send two SASE's, one rose colored enveloped labeled"Acceptance Letter," and a black envelope labeled "Form Rejection Slip.” Enclose a smiley face sticker, with instructions to the editor to affix it to the black envelope if he has scribbled a personal note of encouragement or advice in the margin of the rejection slip.”

Interesting counsel, but not applicable to my particular situation because, after reading and contemplating the advice, I realized it was not the rejections, or the words therein, that unnerved me. Some of my rejection letters actually evoked a smile. One I still have:

“Had we had received your manuscript a year ago, we would have been eager to publish it. However, due to what we perceive as instabilities in the market that render us unable to make a profit, we cannot do so as we plan to cease publication. However, please feel free to send additional manuscripts as we enjoy reading your work.”

And, my personal favorite: “If you were a well-known author, or a male author, we feel your manuscript would be saleable.”

I was working on the first problem. However, since the publisher didn’t mention an option to adopt a masculine pen name, there wasn’t much I could do about the second!

I decided to break things down to see how I really felt about the whole process of writing and submission. Writing - good. Rewriting - check. Filing - great. Getting manuscript out and rereading, revising, and rewriting - wonderful. Putting manuscript into envelope and sending -- eeekkk!

Two images popped into my head. The first was of my fiery, redheaded high-school typing teacher, Mrs. Weidman, who gave my fingers a sharp rap with her ruler if I erred at the keyboard. She made it plain she didn’t like me, and she had zero tolerance for my inability to produce spontaneous, blunder free papers. To this day I don’t know why -- it wasn’t for lack of trying -- but my brain and fingers could simply not make a connection that would allow me to type 100 plus words per minute with no errors.

The second image was of my mother. In my youth, I frequently followed her around and tried to get her to listen to my stories. Her response was almost always the same: “Lori, writing is not your forte.” I knew she thought she was doing me a favor by discouraging me from making a fool of myself. She believed writing, for me at least, to be a frivolous occupation. Her words stung.

Silly as it seemed, though nearly two decades had elapsed, I continued to allow my self-esteem to remain in a battered state. I wasn’t really afraid of rejection -- I pretty much expected it. The problem was I feared I would never measure up. My efforts would never -- ever -- be good enough for the Mrs. Weidman’s of the world. Sometimes, I could almost feel the smack of her ruler on my fingers when I even contemplated putting a manuscript into the mail. “Yes, Mrs. Weidman, I’d better check it one more time -- I’ll file it away until I can…”

In addition, as I’d discovered with a handful of other things in my life, when a parent expresses stringent and repeated opposition to your choices, it can be difficult to overcome. Could my manuscripts ever be perfect enough that my mother would believe writing was my forte?

My yearning to have my manuscripts be undeniably perfect in every aspect, to the point I feared sending them out (some even after private editors combed over them) was rooted in a fear of failure. I had to have a stern talk with myself and remember failure is a normal part of life. Without it, like I often told my children, how could we learn? It’s not failure that matters, it’s the way we handle it. It’s getting up one more time and trying again, even if those who oppose us think we shouldn’t.

I’m getting braver at submitting manuscripts. As a result, I’ve enjoyed some rewarding achievements, milestones I never would have reached had I always been a chicken and not tried. Now, each time I submit, my fingers and heart hurt less because I know I haven’t truly failed until I quit, and I don’t intend to quit.