I'm trying to get used to the steady flow of rejections compared to the tiny rivulet of acceptances.
Today, Ninth Letter said no thank you.
Earlier today, I made a word cloud from the blog (over at Wordle). I couldn't wait to get home and try it on my Night essay...
It's interesting that "light" is bigger than "night." And, note to self, "like" shouldn't be visible from a galloping horse.
I also read a review of two nature themed books. The reviewer didn't finish one of them, and insinuated that those sorts of contemplative, lyrical, naturey kinds of things are pretty--but only in small doses. In art school, I was enamored of Joseph Cornell's boxes. So, I made my own, most of which were very dissimilar to his. But still they were "precious" and "charming" rather than interesting and engaging, so I gave up on art.
Why am I so intrigued by pretty, lovely, plotless things? The stories I loved when I was little were pretty. They were fantasies and romances--neither genre can lure me in any more. My essays stall for want of a point. An "arc." I can't be a poet, I don't understand poetry. I am tone-deaf when it comes to poems: if you tell me it's good, I will sing along to myself. Sometimes, I will read something and know it's good. But usually not.
Do I want to make a living, or do I want to make art? It is entirely likely that the bulk of what's in my head will remain uninteresting or unintelligible to all but a few crazy souls who follow me down my "merely romantic" rabbit holes...
Wait, that sounds dirty. Let me try again.
What if no one ever CARES? She wailed.
I posted a poem at Fictionaut, for the St. Valentine's Day Massacre group, called "untitled: #2." So far, it should have a different name, and possibly format. In other news, my throat is very scratchy. I'm hoping it's a symptom of the fruit fast I've been on and not some kind of illness. How great of a first impression is that, to be sick?