I Have Become Accustomed To Rejection

Outstanding submissions: 13

Rejections: 1, personal-ish

Another rejection from Copper Nickel. They enjoy my writing, want more but not this story. Alas. This story is one of my favorites so I trust it will find a home. I say that about every story but I don’t really write things I don’t like.

READ MORE >

Outstanding Submissions: 9

Rejections: 1

1. Judge Judy is fierce today. I don’t normally watch daytime television but I killed myself at the gym yesterday and today and I feel like maybe, I deserve to. She is dressing down some back talking wenches. I love it.  Yesterday I was made to do a series of squats with 135 pounds on my shoulders. It was difficult to make it to my car afterwards. When I got to campus, the elevator was out of order and I had a meeting on the third floor. I was very sad about that. Life felt very hopeless at the bottom of those stairs. Life felt very hopeless when I reached the third floor. But I was breathing. When I started working with my trainer, she asked me what my goal was. I said I wanted to climb stairs without feeling like dying. Good news! I only felt like napping yesterday. This has come at a steep price, that price being stepping up and down on different-sized steps for hours a week. My trainer is awesome. We’re having margaritas tomorrow.

1.5 My gym is a strange place. It’s not a fancy big city gym. The equipment is old. Most of my fellow gym goers are old as in older than 65 all the way up to 88 (seriously). The place smells like old sweat, Ben Gay, denture cream and mold. The old people are my buddies. They are always chatting with me and encouraging me and it used to bug me but now I embrace it because a geriatric gym posse is better than no gym posse. They teach me about the history of the area and old Finnish words and compliment me so that’s great. I do, however, have an admirer who is more effusive than most of my gym buddies. He is at least 60 and is always red-faced, florid. He wears the most form fitting, uncomfortable to look at gym shorts and mismatched shirts and knee high socks. I’ve known him for years because he hangs out at the bar/restaurant where I hang out with friends. He’s always said hi to me and tried to chat me up and I’ve never thought much of it because whenever a stranger talks to me I naturally think they’re going to make fun of me or kill me or something. I’m weird. Anyway, whenever he sees me, he comes running over, whether I’m in a training session or slogging away on the horrible treadmill or bouncing on a yoga ball and he chats about the weather and asks me about school and my friends and this and that and the other.  For the past three weeks, he has intensified his efforts and now is always telling me, things like “You are looking so fantastic,” or “Keep up the good work,” and he has even been sharing his enthusiasm for my “progress” with the gym staff. Yesterday, when I could not have looked shittier, felt more bloated and horrid, he said, “Goddamn, you’re looking good,” and then stood there and watched while I ran laps around the all purpose room and then did sit ups on the yoga ball. I think he was staring at my ample cleavage. Is he a geriatric chubby chaser? Is there something wrong with his eyesight? The whole thing creeps me out and makes me want to stuff my face.

2. February has been quite horrible. Is February ever good? One of the many reasons I love Light Boxes is how it makes clear that February is a bad bad man.

3. Bad men are underrated and underappreciated. I do my part to right (write?) that wrong.

4. The rejection was from West Branch; they hope I think of them in the future. I will think of them in the future. I will think of them so damn much. Then I read a blog entry from a writer who doesn’t really like PANK and was frustrated about his rejection from us. Coupled with the rejection and the rejection of my rejection was an acceptance to a magazine where I thought I would never get an acceptance.  Balance is important.

5. Every morning while driving to the gym I listen to this amazing radio show on a local station called the Super Saver Hotline. The two hosts, some guy and an older woman named Mary Anne sell discounted gift certificates to local businesses and they chat about the most random, quotidian things and I have to confess, I am IN LOVE with this show. I cannot get enough and when I move, of the four things I will miss, one is this radio show. Today Mary Anne talked to two women who work at the Kaleva Cafe and the restaurant ladies kept responding with these monotone, one-word answers and it was such a treat. Here’s a sound clip where you will be introduced to the term anti-broccoli-er. You won’t regret listening. I start laughing toward the end and sound like a crazy person, maybe.

This is excellence.

6. I was mentioned in a review of Artifice Magazine on the Kenyon Review blog. Thank you William Walsh for those kind words. I also had some nanofiction running in serial this week at Pic Fic. You can see the entire series here. I had fun writing that little series, trying something different. I also have a story at Women Writers Zine. I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned that. I slept in a sleep number bed in a Radisson. Horrible bed.

7.  I learned about Magnesium Citrate this week. Wow.

8. This is my coffee table. While you can’t see it, it is super cute and has drawers in either end great for hiding crap when guests come over. The table is from IKEA, and yes, I assembled it myself or at the very least, carefully supervised the assembly.

As you can see, I am reading an issue of Barrelhouse, Keyhole 9, Mel Bosworth’s chapbook with the long title about razzing chickens (delightful), Canteen, Dave Housely’s Ryan Seacrest book, three issues of Poetry, Weave, Sleepingfish, Mather Schneider’s Drought Resistant Strain (SO GOOD), Emma Straub’s Fly-over State, a Broadset Literary Collective zine, the Holiday in Cambodia zine from Annalemma, Artifice 1, Kristina Born’s One Hour of Television, the latest issue of CCC, Pear Noir 3, Scott Mclanahan’s Stories II (awesome, review this weekend), the last two issues of One Story, a book on research design and a book on Foucault as I work on my dissertation, Naoko Awa’s The Fox’s Widow, the latest issues of Fence, Caketrain, American Short Fiction and….

9. The new DIAGRAM anthology. It is a deck of cards. IT IS A DECK OF CARDS. You can actually play cards with these cards and read interesting things.

My thumb looks discolored and weird here. It looks like a mutant thumb. I have pretty great fingers, I must admit. This is a bad picture of my thumb.

10. I can’t remember what Item 10 was supposed to be. Oh yes. My first short story collection, which I wrote as my master’s thesis, is called How Small the World. I re-read it in the wee hours of this morning when I couldn’t sleep. The hardest thing about being a writer is looking at the work of your younger self.

10.5 When my brothers and I were kids, we would hear this radio commercial in Haiti for Beurre Marianne, a brand of butter, and the last like of the commercial was, “Pas quittez yo péter sous nous,” and every time we heard this line we would DIE laughing because in Creole pété means to fart so we thought they were saying, “Don’t let them fart on us,” when really the line was saying don’t let them get one over on you. Good times.

Outstanding Submissions: 14

There has been very little writing news as of late. It’s making me crazy.

Don’t judge me for what I’m about to say.

I’m going to be honest about how very depressing it is to not have been nominated for Best of Web 2010 or had any of my writing selected for inclusion. I’m so happy (genuinely) for all the writers whose work has been recognized and that recognition is well-deserved. Feeling sulky is not about begrudging others their accolades. It’s all about me. This is a blog, after all. I also realize that such recognition is not the point of writing at all, but I keep it real and there’s a part of me that is wracked with self-doubt. I feel mediocre. I feel very very mediocre.  Not one story was good enough?  I kind of think my Pindeldyboz story is some of my strongest work. I cannot be the only writer feeling this way this week.  I mean, it sucks to not have a date to the prom, right? I’ll continue to try harder but I am disappointed and finding it hard to rebound.

In even more depressing news, my hair is falling out, like REALLY falling out in frightening clumps (though no bald spots, just lots of hair falling out. I’m afraid to brush my hair, wash my hair, relax my hair, or even look at my hair), and Dr. Google hasn’t helped in figuring out what’s going on and the nearest dermatologist is like Green Bay,  and I have always had thick luxurious hair so this is pretty much a real fucking bummer. My hair was the only thing I ever felt good about and now I have like no hair left. NO HAIR. I’ve tried vinegar rinse, coal tar, I’m taking 5 vitamins a day.  I’m quietly freaking out. I mean, I am REALLY freaking about this. Is it stress? Poor eating habits? A very serious disease that will kill me? Am I DYING? I hope not.

I have a thing up at The Rumpus about the men at my gym.

I got a job.

My problems are silly but…. MY HAIR!

Outstanding Submissions: 12

Rejections: 2, personal

I received very snappy rejections from NY Tyrant (no but the story had great moments) and The Nashville Review (not quite right but send more). I can live with this.

If you have an impossible, unrequited infatuation for someone and you are over the age of 16, is crush still the appropriate terminology?

I was a semi-finalist in the Rose Metal Press Chapbook competition. Considering my fellow semi-finalists and finalists, I am really quite thrilled. This was a genuine and much-needed surprise.

I recommend a song for the Wigleaf winter playlist. There are also really interesting recommendations from writers like Lauren Becker, Kirsty Logan, Elizabeth Ellen, Angi Becker Smith and Jim Ruland among others.

I had a campus interview at a mid-sized Midwestern University. The faculty made me feel at ease and things went really well I think but that could also be delusion talking. I really enjoyed the day and the people I met. I did the best I possibly could. I could be happy there.

I spent Saturday in Chicago and last night I had dinner with Tadd Adcox and Rebekah Silverman, editors of Artifice Magazine and Tim Jones-Yelvington. I was, of course, super nervous becauze I’m a spaz but ended up having a grand time. It was the first time I’ve relaxed in weeks. They were very… urban and sophisticated but also very smart and witty and kind. I felt like a hick a little bit. I wore big hoop earrings. I like big hoop earrings. We went to an Argentinian steakhouse called Folklore that was super trendy. The bathrooms were gorgeous and immaculate. There were NO ugly people in that restaurant. It was like a central meeting place for beautiful thin people wearing black clothing, perfect makeup and expensive shoes. The hipster quotient was high. I was wearing black and expensive shoes. The food was fantastic. Massive quantities of meat were eaten with this magical topping that involved a shocking amount of garlic. I drank a delicious Mojito. It was  the most delicious concoction ever in a glass with lots of party favors like ice, mint and lime. If all alcohol tasted that good, I would drink regularly. It was very exciting to meet new people and have great conversations. I felt like an adult. I also learned about a Russian Orthodox church, an evil condo building, saw a beautiful apartment and commiserated about unreliable printers. Can’t wait to do it again.

Several of you have asked how you might help with Haiti. I would like to do a fundraiser for Edna and Hans. If you’re interested in participating, please feel free to send any amount you wish, via PayPal, to rgay74 at gmail dot com. This is an option if you’re interested in donating to a family who can and will benefit directly and use all of your contribution immediately. All contributions will go directly to Hans and Edna to help them begin to rebuild their lives. Feel free to share this information with others who want to do something more personal than contribute to a major charity (which is also an excellent alternative). I’m going to kick in $150 but any amount would help. The US dollar goes a long way in Haiti.

Just so I can stay true to the purpose of this blog, I have not had any rejections. I don’t really care if I get any rejections. Everything about my life feels so trivial right now. I feel selfish and lucky and guilty that I get to live what is a really amazing life and so many others don’t. I am starting to think Haiti is like a prison and only a lucky few escape and I am the child of two such lucky escapees only one of those escapees is insane and has chosen to return to the asylum (she says to her father).  I need to find a way past this because there’s so much that is amazing about Haiti, really there is but right now, it is hard to hold onto those good things and it is pretty hard to imagine a future for that place. I selected the story for this week’s Smokelong Quarterly, The Strain of Collusion by xTx. It is a story I love and that moved me a great deal. I hope you love it as much as I do.  I use the word “that” too much. I use too many commas. I use the words “I think” too much. I do think too much. I have opinions I am not afraid to share.

My brother J is visiting my parents this week and holding a corporate retreat at their golf club. He is the real bon vivant of the family, the middle child, the loud boisterous one who makes his presence known, and pretty much everyone who ever meets him either loves him or hates him.  He’s awesome and exactly what the doctor ordered. When he got there on Saturday, he instantly cheered my parents up. They called me via conference call and I heard my dad laugh for the first time in a week. My dad had been sulky because there were no commercial flights into PAP and he was getting antsy. He has since, of course, found a way to run into the fire. This is why my brother makes my parents laugh:

Yes, my brother wore that outfit. He appeared in public in said outfit, and he wasn’t being like, ironic. We are very different. Sorry ladies, he is married.

My mom called me today and told me to call Edna who had gotten out of bed and was at the office with Hans and Clifford because they plan to go everywhere together now. I didn’t want to call, not because it was an inconvenience but because I didn’t know what to say to a woman who had just lost two children, and was homeless and surrounded by chaos. It’s one thing to talk about Edna’s family and to try in some small way to tell her story but it is another thing entirely to talk to her. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing, of my French not being clear enough to convey the depths of my sadness over her loss, and also, I was afraid of intruding on her grief which is such a personal thing. I have no real way of understanding what it means to lose a child and moreover what it means to have lived through a catastrophe of such massive proportions and then be forced to continue to live so close to the geography of one’s grief. I know nothing at all. I am a silly girl.  My mother being my mother, said, “You will know what to say.” and that was that. When she makes these kinds of requests, it is not a question of if but when.

I called the office (we have VoIP there and by the grace of someone other than God it WORKS). When Edna came to the phone I could barely hear her. Her voice… the tone of it is something I have never in my life heard. It was so horrible. There was a hollowness to it, a profound emptiness, like there was no life left in her. I told her how sorry I was for her loss, that my thoughts are with her, that I would do anything I could to help. She began talking, slowly at first, and then the words were rushing furiously. She told me that she was the one who made it to her home first, around 9 pm. She told me that the children were still alive when she got there, that she talked to them, that Alex and Immacula called for her, and she told them she loved them and she screamed and she tried to lift enormous blocks of concrete but she could not get to them. When others finally came, they pulled Clifford free and then he directed them to where his brother was and later they found Immacula. Edna said she will never forget the horror of standing there speaking to her trapped children, that she still hears their voices and sees their bodies. She said she didn’t know how something like this could happen to her and that her children were so young, that they knew nothing of life. And then she started saying, “It’s hard,” over and over again.  As she spoke, I finally understood that there are some things from which someone cannot recover. The horror of this is very fresh for Edna but I honestly do not know how she has the strength to make it from one breath to the next. I felt so small and helpless because to say things will get better would have been ridiculous. It would have been an insult for me to say those words to Edna so for an hour, I listened. My mother was right. I did know what to say. Unfortunately, it was not nearly enough.

The media has, in recent days, made much of the evils of the Haitian elite. I will not sit here and say that the Haitian elite are without their faults but the notion that the Haitian elite treat the rest of the country without regard is really quite offensive. I’ve read articles that say the elite (for lack of a better term) just step over the poor and don’t even know how to communicate with them because of the language barrier (French vs. Creole). There are few Haitians, from any class who do not speak Creole. Even the Americans in Haiti learn Creole quite quickly. The reality in Haiti, as in many Third World countries, is that the rich and the working poor could not exist without one another. Without the elite, what little economy Haiti has would not exist. There would be no jobs. There would be nothing at all. Without the working poor, nothing would get done. Everyone in Haiti is pretty clear on the reality that we all need each other.

There are many Haitian elite who are classist and behave abhorrently. Exploitation does take place and it is unacceptable that so much wealth is concentrated in the hands of so few. At the same time, is that concentration of wealth unique to Haiti? I don’t think so. The primary difference in terms of wealth distribution between the US and Haiti is that here in the US we have a middle class.  There are also many among the upper class who are mindful of the importance of respecting all Haitians, and who treat those who work for them equitably. In Haiti, the average household functions with the crucial support of many domestic employees–maids, nannies, gardeners, chauffeurs, caretakers and more. These people become part of your family, often for generations. The elite help their employees build homes, pay for their childrens’ educations. This is not something that deserves special attention. It’s the least one could do but I say this to simply point out that the media really has no understanding of Haiti and how the society works (for better or worse).   It is really shortsighted to assume that the Haitian elite (not to be confused with the government which is another issue entirely) is as corrupt, exploitative and unfeeling as the media would have you believe.

On to more important matters.

Hans and Edna have worked for my family for nearly ten years. Edna started as a housekeeper then became the manager of my mom’s gas station and now is an office manager at my dad’s company. Hans is the right hand man. There is nothing he doesn’t do. He is a chauffeur and facilitator. He is a protector. He is a supervisor at my dad’s company, keeping track of the heavy equipment and fuel. He is fiercely loyal and protective not only of my parents but my brothers and I. When my brother and my cousin were 16, they wanted to take a car for a joyride in PAP. They thought driving in PAP would be the same as driving in the States. Hans jumped in front of the car and refused to let them leave without him driving because he knew that two diaspora boys driving around in PAP aimlessly was a recipe for disaster. Both Edna and Hans are extremely intelligent.  Had they been afforded the privilege of being born in the US, they would have become anything they wanted.

They have three children–Immacula (14), Clifford, (16) and Alex (9). Clifford is a bit of a trouble-maker but he is a charming boy, taller than his father. He is their only surviving child. Immacula was a beautiful girl, tall, slender, sassy, adored by her father. Alex was witty and ridiculously smart and the cutest boy you ever did see. Though his parents adore all their children, Hans and Edna could not help but let it show once in a while that Alex was their favorite.  Immacula died instantly, crushed by her home. Alex’s legs were crushed but he survived the initial earthquake. Hans paid someone to break down an obstructing wall so he could free his children. Hans carried Alex through the streets looking for medical help but could not find any. His youngest child died in his arms. He had to bury his children himself. He laid them to rest together in a shallow grave. Edna is inconsolable. She can barely sit up and has not spoken since the earthquake. Hans is trying to be strong. He is a man of such character and resolve that he went to work after burying his children. This morning, my dad told him, “We cannot take away your sorrow but we will help you rebuild and we will try to help you through this.” Hans said, “I know, Ingénieur.” For the past three mornings, he goes to my parents’ apartment which is uninhabitable but has food. He only takes a little each day because he, Edna and Clifford are living with so many other people (at a relatives home) who would steal his food if he brought too much. He doesn’t share where he’s getting this food from. This morning he also said, “My life is over.” To know that something like this can happen to people who are so loving and good is unbearable. These stories need to be told.

Hans, Edna, Clifford, Immacula and Alex at the Hotel Montana for dinner with my family in June 2008

Alex and Immacula June 2008

I have been overwhelmed and humbled by the support and friendship I’ve received over the past two days. Thank you. PANK is donating all our proceeds from sales of our first chapbook and PANK 4 to the American Red Cross and Médecins Sans Frontières between now and 2/13/10. Go here to get some great reading and do a good thing.

I have heard from old friends, acquaintances, exes, that’s the overwhelming part. I’m humbled because even people I’ve treated poorly when I was young and/or stupid have been kind enough to ask how me and my family are doing. My parents have experienced much of the same–almost everyone my father has ever worked with has gotten in touch with him. It’s kind of crazy to see how widely the story of the earthquake is being reported and how strongly people are reacting to the catastrophe.

Everyone asks me how I’m doing and I say I’m fine. I say I’m fine because really, what else is there to say? I cannot overstate how lucky my family and I are. We have suffered some great losses and I do not mean to minimize that but it is almost embarrassing to say I’m having a hard time when I think of the people in Port-au-Prince, both my family who are safe but traumatized and grieving and the unfathomable millions who are without shelter, food, water or hope. However bad you think the situation in Haiti is, whatever you think you’ve seen on the news, multiply that by a thousand. What’s even more disheartening is to know that in a day or two, all hell is going to break loose.

I am fine but I just cannot comprehend how something like this could happen in a country that could so little afford such a calamity. I have never been a woman of strong faith but I must admit that what little faith I had has been completely shattered and I’m not even remotely interested in entertaining any discussion about it.  I look at what happened in Haiti, I look at people like Pat Robertson (not even worth our time, right?) and Rush Limbaugh (human excrement) and the guys at Perkins tonight who were openly making jokes about the earthquake and I think surely there is no God.

I am fine but I feel numb because it is all so overwhelming. Watching CNN is overwhelming. To know the country well enough to understand how desperate and impossible the situation is, overwhelms me. Anderson Cooper is sexy. He is going to marry me, I think.

The Haitian government is an international embarrassment from top to bottom. Yes, I said it.  It has to be said. The president has given two weak, sad little interviews and has barely shown his face. We’ve seen every other official but the supposed leader of the country. I understand that he is overwhelmed. I cannot begin to imagine what it is like to be in his shoes, but to to do nothing, to not address the people, to not try and coordinate with US and UN officials or at the very least, authorize them to take control so the bottlenecks at the airport can improve is… unspeakable.  It is such an outrage and I am shocked that the media is not reporting on this angle of the “story.”

The news coverage irritates me sometimes. Sanjay Gupta held a baby and changed the bandage on her head and then acted like he had resurrected her from the dead. The baby is 15 days old. I can’t even wrap my mind around the reality of all the motherless children in Haiti right now. CNN keeps going on about the prisoners fleeing the damaged prison as if there were other reasonable options. What were the prisoners supposed to do? Just sit around and… discipline themselves, wait for new guards to arrive? It’s just so stupid to act like it’s appalling that the prisoners left the broken prison. They say that an expert warned of the earthquake. So what? In a country like Haiti, that information is pretty useless. There was nothing that could have been done to prevent this given the ineffectiveness and corruption of the government. Some of the reporters keep on acting like Haiti is a normal place. The only saving grace is Anderson Cooper who has an infinite supply of tight little t-shirts, perfect blue eyes, clearly knows the country and loves the country and will probably marry me when this is all over. I am keeping my name but if you call me Mrs. Cooper I won’t be rude and correct you.

Attention makes me hugely uncomfortable, particularly given how far removed I am from any kind of suffering so really, truly, I am fine.

My great aunt and uncle died. They were married for 62 years. They were not distant relatives. I saw them often. They loved me unconditionally. They didn’t bother me about my tattoos, which for old school, conservative Haitians is some serious business. They gave me a couple looks at first but then life moved on because they love me. They were like grandparents to me.  They loved their children all of whom became great people, successful. They adored my father and his siblings. When my paternal grandmother came to the United States, my father and his siblings lived with my great aunt and uncle until their mother sent for them. When I was a kid, I would go to my great aunt’s art gallery in PAP and she would give me art and tell me about art and jewelry and my brother and I would run around the store and try to stab each other with wooden machetes and we would get stern looks and I would sit at the little cafe in the gallery and she would give me sandwiches and coke in a glass bottle which I thought was the most amazing thing. In the picture below, taken about a month ago, they are on Royal Caribbean’s Oasis of the Seas which recently docked in Labadie, Haiti. The picture was taken in the before when Haiti had hope and things were looking up. My dad provided all the concrete for the new pier in Labadie and fancy people were on the ship attending a reception celebrating the opening of the pier and the maiden voyage of the ship.   My great aunt and uncle were so proud of my father. They said, “Look at what our son has done,” as they walked along the pier and once on the world’s largest cruise ship, they simply beamed.  They were in their 80s but they were super sassy and dignified and active. They lived a good life. They did not deserve this end. No one does.

Outstanding Submissions: 15

Rejections: 2, personal, Fractured West and form, Mississippi Review

Alaska. Alacrity. Anonymous. I have not been spared rejection despite this being the most wonderful time of the year, or so the story goes. My story wasn’t the right fit for them but they are very interested in seeing more. That poor, ill-fitting story, left in a crumpled pile in the back of the closet, is waiting for just the right editor with whom to fit.

The Mississippi Review addressed me as Dear Writer. Again, my writerness has been acknowledged. I thank you Mississippi Review. I will crack you, tough nut, just you wait and see! Imagine me, if you will, belting out “And I Am Telling You,” from Dreamgirls.

True story: a couple months ago, I decided to ego google myself. I stumbled upon a forum where an angry writer, who spelled my name incorrectly, was absolutely irate that the PANK rejection e-mail addressed them as Dear Writer. That was something I wasn’t even aware of so I immediately changed the rejection letter template and e-mailed the writer to let them know that their concerns had been heard and action had been taken. To this writer’s credit, they were mortified and apologetic. That was the last time I Googled myself. I don’t like knowing what people say about me.

If you’d like to hear me reading La Negra Blanca, which appeared in the October issue of The Collagist, go here. I cannot explain the strange lisp I adopt from time to time save to say that I was very thirsty while reading this story and nervous about messing up because I am afraid of reading.

I saw Avatar. I loved Avatar. I blogged about it for Barrelhouse.

I talk about some things from the past year at Big Other.

I am writing this with conditioner in my hair while wearing a plastic shower cap. Yes, yes, ladies and gentlemen. Calm yourselves. I know this image is terribly sexy but there’s more than enough of me to go around. Please form an orderly line to the left.

Thank you for publishing my postcard, and my short short story, How it Is.

Rejections: 3, Two personal rejections from Every Day Genius. One story was too explicit, the other was too much like other stuff they’ve run this month. A form rejection from Ghoti Magazine. Alas. I soldier onward.

Outstanding Submissions: 29

New story up at Staccato Fiction which I have really been enjoying. It’s called The Ways in Which Looks Deceive.