Sad day. The mail came, and it included my self-addressed stamped envelope from The Night contest. They only use those for the diminutive yet crushing slips of paper that say, "you will not even be mentioned, honorably or otherwise."
I mean, CAMON. I tell myself to be reasonable. There must have been hundreds of entries. Thousands! Let's say thousands. But the fact is: I had hope and now it is gone.
Because you have to have hope, right? I mean. I have to believe that my work can win all of the awards all of time. I have to put everything I have into it, or it's pointless. Leave it all on the race route, my running coaches always said. (God I wish I could go for a run right now, but it is dark and my neighborhood is not built for that.) So, I got attached. I thought for sure, that at least... a runner up? So many accolades for my "old writing," last year's stuff from the admissions committees--surely this year's better stuff had a chance?
I don't have children (and I can't even stand my cat most days), all I have are these words to send out into the world, and hope that they change it for the better, make me proud. Now the failure of this essay is on me, the hapless parent, who failed to adequately prepare--or did not give enough attention to--my progeny. This prodigal child, come back to me via a stupid little sliver of paper: not even worth a whole sheet! they tell me. And I haven't just failed these ten double spaced pages. The hummingbirds and bees that I loved so hard! have gone down with the ship as well.
This happens. This is what writing is about, what I want to be my future forever. Papercuts from the online journals who pay nothing, stabbings from the magazines I love so much, and an axe to the forehead from a contest that I felt I had sent my best. If I want to get through the rest of my life, I just have to learn to grit my teeth and lean into the blows.
I know rejection happens, which is why I turned around and sent it in to another competition before I'd even eaten dinner. And I packaged up another submission, that I'll send after I get paid next week. (Incidentally, these $20 fees really add up when one is trying to live on $100 a week. Can I really spend the rest of my life like this: page to page, stamp by stamp?)
So there it is. I'm going to bed early, after maybe crying for a little bit. It's been a long week, and I deserve it.
Showing posts with label Losers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Losers. Show all posts
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
365 days of being a writer: day 161
Let's try something different today. Open a new tab or window. In the new tab, go to Daytrotter, the latest Iron & Wine session. Start playing the first song, Tree by the River. Then come back here and read this. They don't directly relate, it's just to replicate the soundtrack of my morning.
Is the music playing?
***
She drove to work like she always did: with a sick sense of dread. She scowled, and kept swallowing down the daily disappointment that threatened to hiccup out while she maneuvered through, past and around what felt like the entire city's worth of egotists and malignant narcissists on the freeway. They cut in front of her without signaling; they raced up on her back bumper; they tried to cut around her on the right--to beat the end of the turn lane and the two cars behind her.
Some days she could ignore the traffic: soft music from her sweet and melancholy mix could be a balm. Most days it felt like the prologue to a day full of fighting off whining, demanding, inconsiderate humanity as it cut itself off in the checkout line, stole sticks of gum, and begged for free samples. This is what the drive to a job in retail does: it beats you down, so you have no illusions when you walk through the automatic doors.
By the time her freeway exit is in sight, anxiety and numbness are fighting over her nervous system. She is trying to let it go, think positive. She still has her eye on the car clock, though. As usual, it took every ounce of will she has to get out of bed--to make her limbs jangle through the motions of getting ready for work. She's cut it close, again. Every day: late.
All the way to the slowing arc of road that peels her off the greater flow of cars and carnage, she tells herself over and over, It could be worse. And in a million ways it could. She could have no job, no legs, no eyelids. She could be mopping up cum at a porno theater for minimum wage. She could be tarring roofs or roads. It could be worse is her mantra to get through the leaden days of obsequious tedium wherein the customer is always right.
She has one more merge to make after her exit. The light is less than 400 yards to her right, with three lanes to cross so she can turn left. It's a divided road, so she glances quickly out the right side where all of the traffic has just gone and then focuses on the left, the direction it's coming from. It's rush hour, so she has to be ready to leap across once she has a window.
This is the part of the drive where she has to wake up for a moment: sometimes this lunge across the lanes has to be cut close enough to make her heart pound and neck hair tingle. Today she sees a car coming, but gauges it to be in the far left lane. She jumps into the turn and as her line of vision shifts from the side window, back to the windshield, she sees a bicycle coming straight at her.
He looks young. Maybe 19, with shaggy dirty blond hair blowing behind him. He's skinny, wearing black fingerless gloves and a windbreaker. She can't tell if his expression changes when they look at each other in the eye across the telescoping gap between their respective metal, rubber, and bones.
There is no time to think about what he's doing on the wrong side of the road. She doesn't even think about all those riders who have died in the last town she called home from this exact maneuver--trying to cut across the flow to save time at a light further up--or the drivers charged with manslaughter when they do. She has a split second to decide to yank the wheel to the left or the right. She remembers that car coming behind her, and pulls hard to the right, over curb, gravel, bits of metal and wood. Rolling, crunching over the sort of empty lot that exists out past sidewalks, lined with zoning signs, price tags, windblown trash.
The kid on the bike doesn't even slow down. He's close enough to her door to clothesline and still, he just barrels away behind her. He's probably cut it close today, too. She rumbles over the curb back into the bike lane (the arrows still pointing forward, stabbing into his bike tires as he continues in the wrong lane), and then waits a moment before leaping across the three car lanes to make her turn. Only after the left, with the arrows and gravel and knuckles poking out of fingerless gloves well behind, does her breath grow ragged, like a fish on a line, gawping for water. But she doesn't cry until she gets to the parking lot at work. And even then, she's only got two minutes to do it.
Is the music playing?
***
She drove to work like she always did: with a sick sense of dread. She scowled, and kept swallowing down the daily disappointment that threatened to hiccup out while she maneuvered through, past and around what felt like the entire city's worth of egotists and malignant narcissists on the freeway. They cut in front of her without signaling; they raced up on her back bumper; they tried to cut around her on the right--to beat the end of the turn lane and the two cars behind her.
Some days she could ignore the traffic: soft music from her sweet and melancholy mix could be a balm. Most days it felt like the prologue to a day full of fighting off whining, demanding, inconsiderate humanity as it cut itself off in the checkout line, stole sticks of gum, and begged for free samples. This is what the drive to a job in retail does: it beats you down, so you have no illusions when you walk through the automatic doors.
By the time her freeway exit is in sight, anxiety and numbness are fighting over her nervous system. She is trying to let it go, think positive. She still has her eye on the car clock, though. As usual, it took every ounce of will she has to get out of bed--to make her limbs jangle through the motions of getting ready for work. She's cut it close, again. Every day: late.
All the way to the slowing arc of road that peels her off the greater flow of cars and carnage, she tells herself over and over, It could be worse. And in a million ways it could. She could have no job, no legs, no eyelids. She could be mopping up cum at a porno theater for minimum wage. She could be tarring roofs or roads. It could be worse is her mantra to get through the leaden days of obsequious tedium wherein the customer is always right.
She has one more merge to make after her exit. The light is less than 400 yards to her right, with three lanes to cross so she can turn left. It's a divided road, so she glances quickly out the right side where all of the traffic has just gone and then focuses on the left, the direction it's coming from. It's rush hour, so she has to be ready to leap across once she has a window.
This is the part of the drive where she has to wake up for a moment: sometimes this lunge across the lanes has to be cut close enough to make her heart pound and neck hair tingle. Today she sees a car coming, but gauges it to be in the far left lane. She jumps into the turn and as her line of vision shifts from the side window, back to the windshield, she sees a bicycle coming straight at her.
He looks young. Maybe 19, with shaggy dirty blond hair blowing behind him. He's skinny, wearing black fingerless gloves and a windbreaker. She can't tell if his expression changes when they look at each other in the eye across the telescoping gap between their respective metal, rubber, and bones.
There is no time to think about what he's doing on the wrong side of the road. She doesn't even think about all those riders who have died in the last town she called home from this exact maneuver--trying to cut across the flow to save time at a light further up--or the drivers charged with manslaughter when they do. She has a split second to decide to yank the wheel to the left or the right. She remembers that car coming behind her, and pulls hard to the right, over curb, gravel, bits of metal and wood. Rolling, crunching over the sort of empty lot that exists out past sidewalks, lined with zoning signs, price tags, windblown trash.
The kid on the bike doesn't even slow down. He's close enough to her door to clothesline and still, he just barrels away behind her. He's probably cut it close today, too. She rumbles over the curb back into the bike lane (the arrows still pointing forward, stabbing into his bike tires as he continues in the wrong lane), and then waits a moment before leaping across the three car lanes to make her turn. Only after the left, with the arrows and gravel and knuckles poking out of fingerless gloves well behind, does her breath grow ragged, like a fish on a line, gawping for water. But she doesn't cry until she gets to the parking lot at work. And even then, she's only got two minutes to do it.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
365 days of being a writer: day 62
Today was spent hobbling around popping pain pills like an old lady, thanks to yesterday's capoeira class. Oh, and writing. And editing. I made the mistake of following through with both rough drafts from last night, until I had two workable, passable stories. Then I couldn't pick which one I liked better.
All day, I finessed one, then tweaked the other. They are night and day from each other, sharing nothing in common except the constraints of "Drama, Race Track, and Laser Pointer." I fell to begging writer friends for their advice. I considered flipping a coin. I read a ton of flash fiction online, trying to decide which one fit the genre better. Then I re-read a few stories from the competition forum, to try to determine which was the more winningest. In the end, I went for the "likeable" characters. I hope the judges are into uplifting as opposed to sarcasm and teen boy vernacular.
Speaking of. Here is the story I didn't send (after the jump):
All day, I finessed one, then tweaked the other. They are night and day from each other, sharing nothing in common except the constraints of "Drama, Race Track, and Laser Pointer." I fell to begging writer friends for their advice. I considered flipping a coin. I read a ton of flash fiction online, trying to decide which one fit the genre better. Then I re-read a few stories from the competition forum, to try to determine which was the more winningest. In the end, I went for the "likeable" characters. I hope the judges are into uplifting as opposed to sarcasm and teen boy vernacular.
Speaking of. Here is the story I didn't send (after the jump):
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Bee-curious?
Here is an excerpt from my McSweeney's column contest submission. They were clearly looking for darker, more sensational stuff, such as war, sex, death, and sex. I really liked this little mini essay, but can't for the life of me think of anywhere else to submit it. So here it will lie, under losers.
***
Chelsea Biondolillo knows a little bit about a lot of things
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
An essay without an audience, or Freaks: Retro Edition
I waited too long. I knew it could happen: I would drag my heels so long on the photography essay that the job would fill in the meantime. And so it has.
But here is the result: a nice little essay on Diane Arbus after the jump. She was always one of my favorites while I was studying photography in college.
But here is the result: a nice little essay on Diane Arbus after the jump. She was always one of my favorites while I was studying photography in college.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Please don't linger on the quad, it's embarrassing
This is part two in a series I'd like to call, "How not to get into a graduate program."
I've looked all over the web for examples of SoIs that got people in, but they don't post those. If I can only help by way of a bad example, so be it: whatever you do, don't write something like the following!
Since I will be re-applying to the program I sent this gem to last year, their name and esteemed faculty member's name have been redacted in the hopes that it even remotely matters. Today, it reads as honest to me as it did months ago, if stilted and more business-y than my writing style usually is. I am (as of July) still completely lost on how to get this part of the packet right, if you have any ideas, please holler.
STATEMENT OF INTENT
One sunny day in August, I walked into my reliable job of twelve years and was told my position as a senior business analyst had been eliminated. It was the stock market, the gas prices, the cost of tomatoes—they said it wasn't personal—but it began a most personal process of self evaluation. I looked through my life experiences for commonalities and moments of purposefulness, and I found years of writing and writing awards—even a bachelor's of fine arts thesis that was all prose: written on telephone poles, gallery walls, anywhere my hands could reach. Ultimately, that pink slip would be a windfall. Not many people get the chance to start over, and I intend to make the most of it by focusing my time and energy on writing and teaching. A degree from your program will be the next step toward my new career.
Prior to losing my job, my technical writing won two awards from the Society for Technical Communication. I have also published mini essays and tutorials in several volumes of the Stitch n Bitch craft book series by Debbie Stoller. In the last year I have had essays and a poem published by the Rio Review and www.roguerunning.com and one of my short stories was first runner up for Austin Monthly's first annual short story contest. I continue to submit work regularly to both literary and trade magazines.
Science and travel are two of my passions. I enjoy combining writing with both, and I appreciate that the program at Your University encourages cross disciplinary electives. I also look forward to working with faculty members such as Your Esteemed Writer in Residence whose lyricism and candor as well as his commitment to public policy are of great interest to me as both a writer and reader.
In the first week of my layoff, I signed up for classes in several subjects that had always interested me: geology, Spanish, belly dance, and creative nonfiction. The writing class made the biggest impact and for the next two semesters I took classes in poetry, prose and publishing. I found that nonfiction specifically lends itself well to a combination of my programmer's logic, facts, and reasoning and my studio artist's attention to texture and tone. I also got some experience mentoring other students, first during a “blog writing” segment in one of my classes and next in the advanced seminar as we were publishing two concurrent issues of the college's literary magazine.
While I did not come directly to a career in creative writing, my winding route has given me invaluable skills and experiences. I possess the follow-through and organization of a certified project manager coupled with the drive that only a second chance can give. I am passionate about learning and feel that Your University is the best place for me to concentrate on both the craft and art of writing.
I've looked all over the web for examples of SoIs that got people in, but they don't post those. If I can only help by way of a bad example, so be it: whatever you do, don't write something like the following!
Since I will be re-applying to the program I sent this gem to last year, their name and esteemed faculty member's name have been redacted in the hopes that it even remotely matters. Today, it reads as honest to me as it did months ago, if stilted and more business-y than my writing style usually is. I am (as of July) still completely lost on how to get this part of the packet right, if you have any ideas, please holler.
STATEMENT OF INTENT
One sunny day in August, I walked into my reliable job of twelve years and was told my position as a senior business analyst had been eliminated. It was the stock market, the gas prices, the cost of tomatoes—they said it wasn't personal—but it began a most personal process of self evaluation. I looked through my life experiences for commonalities and moments of purposefulness, and I found years of writing and writing awards—even a bachelor's of fine arts thesis that was all prose: written on telephone poles, gallery walls, anywhere my hands could reach. Ultimately, that pink slip would be a windfall. Not many people get the chance to start over, and I intend to make the most of it by focusing my time and energy on writing and teaching. A degree from your program will be the next step toward my new career.
Prior to losing my job, my technical writing won two awards from the Society for Technical Communication. I have also published mini essays and tutorials in several volumes of the Stitch n Bitch craft book series by Debbie Stoller. In the last year I have had essays and a poem published by the Rio Review and www.roguerunning.com and one of my short stories was first runner up for Austin Monthly's first annual short story contest. I continue to submit work regularly to both literary and trade magazines.
Science and travel are two of my passions. I enjoy combining writing with both, and I appreciate that the program at Your University encourages cross disciplinary electives. I also look forward to working with faculty members such as Your Esteemed Writer in Residence whose lyricism and candor as well as his commitment to public policy are of great interest to me as both a writer and reader.
In the first week of my layoff, I signed up for classes in several subjects that had always interested me: geology, Spanish, belly dance, and creative nonfiction. The writing class made the biggest impact and for the next two semesters I took classes in poetry, prose and publishing. I found that nonfiction specifically lends itself well to a combination of my programmer's logic, facts, and reasoning and my studio artist's attention to texture and tone. I also got some experience mentoring other students, first during a “blog writing” segment in one of my classes and next in the advanced seminar as we were publishing two concurrent issues of the college's literary magazine.
While I did not come directly to a career in creative writing, my winding route has given me invaluable skills and experiences. I possess the follow-through and organization of a certified project manager coupled with the drive that only a second chance can give. I am passionate about learning and feel that Your University is the best place for me to concentrate on both the craft and art of writing.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
You can't teach HERE
I will be re-writing this part of my application packet, so I don't mind posting this (now cringe-inducing) essay I wrote as part of last year's application. I love how I mention my attention to detail in a doc full of typos! (Granted, this was a draft, I can only HOPE I fixed the glaring errors before dispatching it.) I can still appreciate my earnestness, though. It's real, even if it sounds like bullshit.
Why I want to teach college
Many graduate students come to teaching without having a clear picture of ways in which it can improve the quality of their own education. As an aspiring writer, there are several aspects of teaching that will enrich not only my master's degree, but also my career. Teaching college level English and writing classes will give me the opportunity to be a part of a quality education for others while expanding my own skills as a writer. Additionally teaching will provide me with a viable career path, which will foster my own growth within my field while contributing in a larger sense to an evolving landscape of writers.
Students enroll in college for a number of reasons: to gain job skills, as a step toward further matriculation, some simply for personal fulfillment. Regardless the reason, they all expect to receive a quality education. My skills and aptitude lend themselves well to teaching and will make a strong member of your teaching staff. I learn quickly, which will be useful when confronted with each new semester's material. As well, through many years in project management and software training positions I have learned how to wrangle and direct complex discussions. My attention to detail and personable nature will help me to find and communicate areas of strength as well as opportunities for improvement in student work.
Why I want to teach college
Many graduate students come to teaching without having a clear picture of ways in which it can improve the quality of their own education. As an aspiring writer, there are several aspects of teaching that will enrich not only my master's degree, but also my career. Teaching college level English and writing classes will give me the opportunity to be a part of a quality education for others while expanding my own skills as a writer. Additionally teaching will provide me with a viable career path, which will foster my own growth within my field while contributing in a larger sense to an evolving landscape of writers.
Students enroll in college for a number of reasons: to gain job skills, as a step toward further matriculation, some simply for personal fulfillment. Regardless the reason, they all expect to receive a quality education. My skills and aptitude lend themselves well to teaching and will make a strong member of your teaching staff. I learn quickly, which will be useful when confronted with each new semester's material. As well, through many years in project management and software training positions I have learned how to wrangle and direct complex discussions. My attention to detail and personable nature will help me to find and communicate areas of strength as well as opportunities for improvement in student work.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Back when things were funny sometimes...
This one was finally rejected by the McSweeney's new food editor today. After the rest of my awesome week I couldn't ask for a better way to usher in a miserable weekend. Thanks! Since there's really nowhere else to send this one, up it goes.
NEW FOOD: Michelina's Lean Gourmet Sesame Chicken
I am not completely ashamed to admit that I am a major consumer of frozen lunches. They are easy to grab when I am running late for work--which is to say, every day. Additionally, they allow me to keep an eye on my caloric intake. While my need for this is the subject of an entirely different essay, one likely starting out with "Clinical Journal: 1," the fact remains that they are a useful tool for managing my neuroses. While frozen lunches of the "calorie conscious" type are fairly reliable in their entree selections, the quality of said offerings vary widely. Normally, I prefer Amy's black bean enchiladas or Healthy Gourmet's beef pot roast, but being both broke and generally indolent, I decided to try Michelina's Lean Gourmet Sesame Chicken. Let me tell you, it's true: you get what you pay for.
First off, I don't remember any sesame seeds. Perhaps they used sesame oil, or the seeds had soaked in the sauce so long they lost their crunchiness. Whatever the reason, I would never have guessed sesame without looking at the box.
Second, let's talk chicken. Remember the pressed chicken product that was used to fabricate school lunch "chicken nuggets"? This chicken is that same sort of spongy beige-gray chewiness that gives way under teeth
NEW FOOD: Michelina's Lean Gourmet Sesame Chicken
I am not completely ashamed to admit that I am a major consumer of frozen lunches. They are easy to grab when I am running late for work--which is to say, every day. Additionally, they allow me to keep an eye on my caloric intake. While my need for this is the subject of an entirely different essay, one likely starting out with "Clinical Journal: 1," the fact remains that they are a useful tool for managing my neuroses. While frozen lunches of the "calorie conscious" type are fairly reliable in their entree selections, the quality of said offerings vary widely. Normally, I prefer Amy's black bean enchiladas or Healthy Gourmet's beef pot roast, but being both broke and generally indolent, I decided to try Michelina's Lean Gourmet Sesame Chicken. Let me tell you, it's true: you get what you pay for.
First off, I don't remember any sesame seeds. Perhaps they used sesame oil, or the seeds had soaked in the sauce so long they lost their crunchiness. Whatever the reason, I would never have guessed sesame without looking at the box.
Second, let's talk chicken. Remember the pressed chicken product that was used to fabricate school lunch "chicken nuggets"? This chicken is that same sort of spongy beige-gray chewiness that gives way under teeth
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Not very literary OR journalistic
This was my first attempt at "literary journalism." Despite the fact that it was rejected from every publication that I sent it to, I considered it one of my stronger essays when it came time to apply to MFA programs. I have to confess that I have grown to doubt it.
My Last (Whole) Paycheck
My Last (Whole) Paycheck
Yahoo Messenger: (08/13/2008 8:25:26 AM):
>mpress77: They are going to lay off 50 people today, Miranda heard it on the elevator.
>santafekid: Really? But not in IT.
>mpress77: She said they said in IT, too.
The instant messages were flying around all morning. My team was worried, even though our project was the only one still getting funding. Our CIO even told the entire Information Technology (IT) team—all 175 plus of us—that we didn't have as much to worry about as the rest of Whole Foods. He was finding the shortfalls elsewhere: in outdated service agreements, unnecessary licensing fees, and wherever else it was that a CIO and a team of accountants could find hidden pockets of cash.
But the email from our manager (team leader, in Whole Foods Market parlance) had come as such a shock. The gist of it: There will be a workplace reduction today happening between 9:30 am and 2 pm. The way it is working is that a team member from the human resources team will approach you in your workspace and take you to a conference room to finalize paperwork. His tone was uncommon for a Whole Foods Market (WFM) team leader, the usual personal and personable tone that he always used with us had been replaced by sentences that looked like they had been cut and pasted from an official memo. It was unsettling that he should be talking to us like we were his employees and he our manager. On any other day, we would have all just been “the team.” And at WFM, the term team was not just used as a form of corporate lip service, we all meant it, most of the time.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
What do you want to be when you grow up? Not laid off, I bet...
(the following piece did not win the Real Simple Essay Contest. I am unable to publish it elsewhere, due to their fine print.)
On a day like any other, it only took five words to change everything.
“Your position has been eliminated.”
One minute you're sitting in your cube, formatting a report or listening to a conference call, and the next—this hushed, tearful conversation that ends in a final paycheck and some boxes you can use to gather your things.
How many times did that simple, horrible sentence bounce off workplace walls last year? I was not alone in my panic. My situation was so common, a whole culture of not-having formed to speak for me: I was a piece of data in reports on an economic trend and a consumer in a new market that would be offered bankruptcy at little or no cost. The topic of news stories, I had a house you could buy cheap and could be found desperate at job fairs, perhaps staring into the camera with still-shocked eyes murmuring, “I just don't know what I am going to do.”
Later that night, at a bar where my friends were buying me conciliatory drinks, an acquaintance was jovial, “You're in high-tech and this is your first layoff? Wow! Well don't worry, they get easier.”
My friend Rachel brushed his comment aside and assured me, “Someday this will be the best thing that ever happened to you.”
On a day like any other, it only took five words to change everything.
“Your position has been eliminated.”
One minute you're sitting in your cube, formatting a report or listening to a conference call, and the next—this hushed, tearful conversation that ends in a final paycheck and some boxes you can use to gather your things.
How many times did that simple, horrible sentence bounce off workplace walls last year? I was not alone in my panic. My situation was so common, a whole culture of not-having formed to speak for me: I was a piece of data in reports on an economic trend and a consumer in a new market that would be offered bankruptcy at little or no cost. The topic of news stories, I had a house you could buy cheap and could be found desperate at job fairs, perhaps staring into the camera with still-shocked eyes murmuring, “I just don't know what I am going to do.”
Later that night, at a bar where my friends were buying me conciliatory drinks, an acquaintance was jovial, “You're in high-tech and this is your first layoff? Wow! Well don't worry, they get easier.”
My friend Rachel brushed his comment aside and assured me, “Someday this will be the best thing that ever happened to you.”
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