Well, I did it today: I finally committed the murder I’ve been plotting and planning for over a week.

Early mornings, late nights, long drives alone–I’ve been spending them all working out the details: who was going to die, just  how I was going to do it, what the fallout would be. And today, I finally did it.

It was relatively bloodless, for a murder, I guess; I thought it’d be a lot messier to clean up than it was.

Who was the victim?

Chapter Seven.

Two weeks ago, I sat straight up in bed at 2:37 a.m., the death knell for Chapter Seven clinging to my lips as I struggled to regain consciousness. “Chapter Seven doesn’t work! It’s gotta go!” It was all I could do not to leap out of bed at that moment and race downstairs to execute it right that minute (that’s one habit that the arrival of our puppy Loki cured me of pretty quickly–she’d wake up the entire house if she heard me typing).

So I lay there in bed, eyes struggling to adjust to the dark, and started plotting the deed. Sure I could cut out the chapter, but how would that affect everything else? What details would I have to cull and rework somewhere else? What if I was overthinking things, and Chapter Seven actually did work and I was being paranoid? What if it turned out later that Chapter Seven was, in reality, the only thing in the entire book that actually did work and I killed it?

Those were the questions I’ve been pondering for the past two weeks. But today, I determined, pondering had to end. I wasn’t getting anything done on this revision by avoiding doing it. So I dutifully notified the next of kin (Chapters Six and Eight), started pulling, cutting, trimming, reworking (after, of course, having saved backup originals in three different places–I’m not that foolhardy). I read Seven the Last Rites, asked if it had any final requests (it did, as it turns out: It requested that it be remembered fondly in the Dedication Page when the rest of the book is published), then raised my weapon of singular destruction (figuratively, not literally–my keyboard’s not wireless) and struck the final blow: Delete.

And now, the deed is done. The offending chapter is gone, and I find, after all, that this was not really a murder–it was a mercy killing.

The flow of this part of the story is so much better now! That chapter was a huge, behemoth of a block, and now that it’s gone, I can see that it really, really needed to go.

And I must confess: It felt good to do all that slashing. I enjoyed it. Sick, I know.

And for those of you following and wondering, no news yet…will keep you posted.

February 5: Still no word from the graduate program, which, if one considers that last year I heard from them much later in the month, is not necessarily an unexpected occurrence. It is, however, mildly panic-inducing. I know I shouldn’t let this get to me, but I am a weak and craven being, prone to intense periods of self-doubt, and so the waiting for me is pretty unpleasant.

I have had plenty to keep me distracted this week: homework for my classes (which are going better now–don’t feel like the Mac dunce of the class anymore); continuing revision of my manuscript; a smattering of small freelance projects; a brief and mild bout with the flu–there’s enough to keep me busy.

But in those quiet moments right before I fall asleep at night, or when I pause to look out the window now at the softly falling snow, I wonder if today will be the day.

Would it really change anything if I were rejected again? Other than knocking my self-esteem down a bit further again, probably not. I’d still write, still work, still hope, but my path, without completion of my degree, would continue to incline steeply, making my journey much more arduous. I feel as though the path would level off a bit with that accomplishment under my belt.

I don’t believe that having that M.F.A. behind my name is an automatic path to publication–it’s not. That requires discipline, hard work, networking, and an incredible amount of luck. The first 3 are entirely under my control, but it’s that 4th element that I wonder sometimes if I am lacking, and which, somewhere in the fevered recesses of my writer’s brain, I wonder if I can compensate for by acquiring those three little letters.

It’s hard for agents and publishers to take a writer seriously when there is no English or Journalism background in one’s history to provide an indication of  one’s writing abilities. They receive, each day, so many queries and so many submissions that I find myself imagining that they must have some sort of a minimum checklist of criteria to winnow the wheat from the chaff:

I imagine something like this:

“Hmm. This author spelled my name correctly. That’s good. The genre is right–I’ll never forget the time I got that “Erotica” manuscript by mistake; hoo boy, that was an interesting read! Looks like it’s formatted according to our secret code, excellent. Ooo, look! She even mentioned several of our published works–that’s bonus points! Wait–uh oh. Oh, dear. No English or Journalism background. Too bad, her synopsis sounded pretty interesting.” [loud thud as bright red “Rejected” stamp is applied to query].

I know, I know–that’s just silly. But when you know there are so many submissions each day, you look, often in vain, for the one thing, that tiny thing, that will get your foot in the door. For me, I look for the things that are in my control to change. Discipline. Careful revision. Thoughtful and effective feedback from respected readers meticulously incorporated…and completing my master’s. Right now, those are the things I can control, so those are the things about which I obsess. (Of course, if I get rejected again, that’s one more thing that is not something I can control–it’s that steep incline thing again…)

So yeah, the waiting is hard, because even though I want to be cool and blase about it, I can’t. It matters too much to me. So I write, and I revise, and I query, and I network, and I wait, to see who will visit my mailbox this month: Will it be the Acceptance Fairy or the Rejection Fairy? (I see her too much as it is.)

These are all of the things that are under my control.

Of course, I wouldn’t kick a little bit of extra luck out of bed right now, either.

Tomorrow is February 1st. Normally, February 1st is not a date that sets my heart pounding out a nauseating rhythm, nor does the mere sight of the mailman approaching my box cause me to break out in a cold sweat. But that was me, last year.

Last year, full of high hopes, I applied to graduate school to finish my master’s degree, and last year, on February 27th, I was devastated by the letter I received informing me of my rejection (see previous post–you’ll recognize it by the black border…)

Being a resilient and persistent bugger, I reviewed my application, my skills, my writing samples, and spent several months acting the Bionic Writer (Better. Stronger. Faster.) Where there were gaps (the GRE), I filled them; where there were weaknesses, I addressed them. I revised, and revised again, my writing samples. I got myself published in national magazines. I participated in workshops, I took classes, I devoured writing books–all in the name of presenting a stronger, more compelling application this time around. And then, I took the ultimate leap of faith, and sent off my second-round application.

Last year, I wasn’t half the candidate I am this year, so I should be more confident than I am. Last year, I didn’t have a GRE score to share. Now I do. Last year, I had no publishing history. Now I do. Last year, I spent less time and care on my writing samples. This year, I poured blood, sweat, and tears into them.

Last year, the rejection letter said that the competition for the twelve open spots they had was intense. But what will it be like this year? Shouldn’t reason alone tell me that this year it may be even more intense?

Last year, I tried and failed. Last year I was devastated. Last year, I received the most disheartening and distressing rejection letter I have ever received. What if I fail again? That is what has begun to awaken me at odd hours of the night as February 1st approached, those two awful, terrifying little words: What if? What if. Between those little words and tomorrow lies my whole future, and I can no longer deny it: those two little words scare me to death.

There: it’s out now. This year, in spite of my renewed determination, in spite of the colossal effort and care I put into preparing for a second run at acceptance, I am frightened. I see the calendar flipping desultorily over to February–it doesn’t really care whether I get accepted or not, after all–and my heart starts to pound in my chest. I see the mailman stopping at my box–Is he lingering a little longer than usual?–and I forget how to breathe.

I look at the upcoming anniversay of my last rejection, and remember the crushing disappointment I felt when I read the letter, and my hands start to tremble.

Now, I know, in the rational part of my brain, that they were right to reject me last year. I was not as strong a candidate as I should have been, and the competition was intense. I know that that utter devastation I felt didn’t kill me–it propelled me forward, made me a better writer, a stronger candidate. It distilled to the fiercest, most brilliant and intoxicating moonshine my determination that that letter would not, simply would not, be the end of me as a writer. And it wasn’t.

So why, then, if the rational part of me knows all of these things, am I reduced to a pathetic, quivering blob of gelatin when I contemplate being rejected again?

Because fear, my friends, is not a rational thing. It is animal, it is base, it does not respond to logic or coaxing or bribery or comfort (nor to alcohol or vast quantities of chocolate–I’ve tried.) And I am afraid: deeply, wondrously afraid.

And so, tomorrow is February 1st. And I wait.

Okay, so I finished The Inferno yesterday, and I was shocked, shocked, I tell you, to discover that, according to Dante, the lowest level of Hell (where one would think things would be hottest) is actually a vast, glacial wasteland where the damned are eternally frozen (makes one wonder if Dante had traveled to Minnesota while he was writing…) Imagine: Hell is cold! That scuttles my backup plan for spring break, I guess…

Obviously, Hell is still on my mind today (why not? It’s just as cold here as the way Dante described it there). I find myself thinking about the various punishments he assigned for different types of wrongdoing. Often, he made the punishment “fit the crime”, something I try to do with my kids, though in far less graphic and vile fashion.

Today, though, I am wondering if, in between all those vast and deep and unending Circles of Hell, Dante shouldn’t have tucked in an occasional minor Ledge of Extreme Irritation or Inconvenience, for just your average Joe. The day I’ve been having today has filled my mind with suggestions for the Pit of Eternal Aggravation:

A typical day in that pit might look like this (and then lather, rinse, and repeat):

Lose keys in snow, twice

Cell phone inexplicably dies

Spill coffee all over white coat

Hit every red light, all 20 of them, en route to next pit of hell

Slip and fall in icy [Of course it’s icy! It’s Hell!] parking lot

Fire alarm evacuates demon class;  forget to save project before fleeing nonexistent flames of Hell

Zip one’s own hair into the lining of one’s coat

Caffeine withdrawal

Pet fish finally dies, joining Satan on ice

I could go on, but I’m afraid to–it’s just been one of those days…

Perhaps Purgatory is a bit warmer…

I’ve been thinking about hell a lot lately (and not just because it would be warmer there than it is here in Minnesota). In part, it’s because I have been working my way through Dante’s Inferno for the past few weeks.

Normally, I choose books to read based on friend recommendations, intriguing jacket descriptions, stellar reviews I might have read–even, on occasion, to vet them before I allow my children to read them (for example, the entire Twilight series, which I finished over the holidays, and which may explain to puzzled friends and colleagues why I am now reading Dante.  Ahhh, we understand now.)

I’m the first to admit it: my literary background has some gaps in it. Placing out of college English seemed like a good thing when I was a senior in high school, but as time passes, I’m finding that I missed out on a lot of really good books. So I make it a point to regularly pick up ones that I missed, and this time, it happened to be Dante.

It’s a hit-or-miss endeavor, truly. Sometimes, I pick up a classic, and I am thunderstruck by it, swept away, enchanted. Sometimes, I pick one up and I feel as though I’d rather be having my fingernails ripped out by the roots than read another page. And then there’s Dante.  Where does he fit?

I wasn’t sure how I would fare with this, given that, number one, it’s written in verse; number two, it’s an English translation, and as a polyglot, I have a firm conviction that  it’s nearly impossible to capture the original essence of any literary work through a translated version of it; and three, when I told my book club  “I want to read Dante’s Inferno as our next selection,”  I was met with stunned silence and blank stares.

But, in spite of that, I plunged into hell, and so far, it’s been surprisingly tolerable. It helps that I’m reading a very old copy that belonged to my mother, and which still bears her college notes and doodles throughout. It also helps that each Canto is preceded by a mini-synopsis and followed by relevant historical and cultural notes. I’m not sure if I would have kept going without them, but I’m glad I’m doing it–I somehow feel like doing this is good for my brain, if not exactly good for the nightmares it conjures up when I fall asleep reading it.

I am currently in the Eight Circle of hell (not to be confused with the software class I’ll be attending later today), and this passage contains some pretty gruesome stuff that I bet the writers of Saw might even have found too gory to use. The surprising thing is that there was a stanza in Canto XXVII that actually made me laugh out loud, causing my husband, I’m sure, to wonder if I’d crossed over to the Dark Side. (Just between you and me, that happened a long time ago.)

“Later, when I was dead, St. Francis came

to claim my soul, but one of the Black Angels

said: ‘Leave him. Do not wrong me. This one’s name

went into my book the moment he resolved

to give false counsel…’

Miserable me! with what contrition

I shuddered when he lifted me, saying: ‘Perhaps

you hadn’t heard that I was a logician.'”

What a riot that guy was! A logician!

?

Not laughing?

Okay…maybe I have crossed over, but if you really want to have some fun with Dante, you could try the second thing that’s been making me laugh my way through Hell: figuring out which of Hell’s Circles to place different people in–now that’s a parlor game I can get behind…