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…

Ha! I got you again! Really, now, this is getting too easy…I’ll bet you thought you were going to be reading some juicy tidbit of gossip about me, didn’t you? Well, you might, but it’s not nearly as juicy a tidbit as you had hoped: the “Bi” in the title here merely refers to the fact that because my fabulous hubby is a god among geeks (See “My Husband Is A God”, Pt. 1), I am officially “Bi-computered” (you’re darned right I made that up.) I am now able to switch at will between a PC and a Mac desktop with the push of a single wonderful button, right at my very own desk. Yeah, I know, “dual-computered” might have been more proper, but then, admit it, you probably wouldn’t have read this, would you? Naughty, naughty, naughty…

That’s right, everyone: from now on, no more shlepping to the lab. Thanks to the Mac Mini and a miracle of modern technology called a KVM switch, I can switch effortlessly and seamlessly back on forth on my monitor between my PC and my Mac. No rebooting, no tearing my hair out trying to switch cords from computer to computer. Sigh…I love this setup, and I love that my husband not only can do these sorts of things for me, but that he will. (And, Mean Professor-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless, he only teases me a little about the things I don’t know.)

In the few days that have passed since he set it up for me, I have grown more confident on the Mac, worked through two of my homework assignments, lost four pounds, won the Pulitzer Prize, and achieved world peace.

Nah, I’m just kidding about a couple of those. It has been very slick, though, and is saving me tons of time I didn’t really have to spare. On top of the two classes, I’m also writing a grant, trying to continue with my manuscript revision (eek! Another rejection letter today–but this one was pre-revision, so it didn’t hurt that badly…no, I lied: it stung like hell, but oh, well, that’s why I’m revising), and trying to get my editors’ newsletter out the door on time next week (I hope).

Having the freedom to work on all of those things at home, without ever having to leave the house (or eat, or comb my hair, or get dressed) has been terrific.

So thanks, honey, again, for helping me to live my dream (and really, who doesn’t dream of spending the day in their pajamas every once in a while?)

This is really the life.

Today, after a long three-day weekend during which I actually did do some work, I am playing frantic catch-up. I spent the morning reworking my resume and crafting a cover letter for a likely position that just crossed my desk; writing an article for this month’s newsletter; working a little bit on my manuscript revision (ugh, that’s going slowly today); and now I will split the remainder of my time this afternoon between research for a freelance project and trying to get ready for my class tomorrow morning.

I know that this is just a test for me of my resolve to work on this manuscript every day, (I want to have it finished and ready for the next round of submissions by the end of March) which I’m doing a pretty good job of maintaining, but find I am feeling just a teensy bit stretched this afternoon. I took the dog for a brief walk in between my gear-switching to clear the stress fog creeping into my brain, and am feeling much better for it.

And now, back to work. See you next time I manage to come up for air!