Category Archives: All Things Writing

Never, never, never–aww, you know the rest.

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It’s “give up.” The end of that quote from Winston Churchill. It’s “Never, never, never, never give up.” Easy for him to say, he was Winston Churchill.

As you might have surmised (and I predicted), the enduring silence from the university did, in fact, mean that I was not accepted again. Sigh. The timing of when I learned my fate (at least as far as grad school this year) was actually perfect, however: first, my favorite writers’ magazine was doing a whole issue this week on dealing with rejection; and second, my in-laws were coming for the weekend, leaving me an entire house to clean furiously and upon which I unloaded all of my terrible angst.

Once again, there was the standard “blah, blah, blah, lots of applicants, blah, blah, blah, stiff competition, blah, blah, blah, even those put on the waiting list had multiple offers from universities across the country, blah, blah, blah…” Good thing I’m not the bitter type.

So what’s next? Well, since Winston Churchill is, in fact, my hero (he is the king of the lovable curmudgeons, an archetype near and dear to my heart, as well as being the poster child for perseverance), don’t think this will make me give up. It did make me cry, but it won’t make me give up.

I am reaching out to a well-respected book doctor this week, to start working with someone objective to finally finish this manuscript once and for all (I hope); I’m attending a Writers’ Festival this weekend, where I will participate in several workshops about which I’m very excited; I’m receiving more nibbles and interest for various other writing and editing jobs, which is encouraging, although none has yet borne fruit; and I am contemplating launching (formally, anyway) my own editing and proofreading business.

So–I’ve picked myself up (again), dusted myself off (again), and I am ready to begin (again). As my hero said, “Success is not final; failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts.”

Just call me Captain Courageous. Thanks for listening.

A Watched Pot…

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…never boils. I used that expression on a 4th grader at my son’s school the other day, while he was waiting for his disagreeably slow computer to boot up in the lab. I had to explain the expression to  him, its (accurate) assertion that the more attention you focus on something for which you are waiting, the longer it seems to take to arrive. He listened politely to my explanation, then went right back to staring intently at the screen, body tensed and quivering with the stress of his watching, hand poised to lightning-click the minute the monitor showed any signs of life.

I am, apparently, no more patient than a 4th grader.

If you read my last post, you know that I have been waiting for news of my application to grad school. No news is yet forthcoming, so I have begun spending part of each day (I decline to disclose  just how large a part) obsessively checking each of my e-mail accounts, meticulously combing through even the junk mail, in search of a reply.  

I’ve even taken to checking the program web site, in hopes that at least there might be a mass message posted there: “We’ve already sent out the acceptance letters, so if you haven’t heard back from us yet, give up now–you won’t.”

There was a mass update posted there on at least one of the times I checked, advising applicants that now (since the “late February” deadline had come and gone) they could expect word of their status sometime “in early March.”

That made me feel so much better, because now I can stop asking the question “When will I get my rejection letter?” and obsess instead about questions such as “What does early March mean? Does it mean the 8th? When do they start calling it mid-March–the 15th? That would be halfway through the month, approximately, wouldn’t it?”

Sigh. And I had promised myself that this year, I’d behave myself better about this waiting thing.

But apparently, I’m no better than a 4th grader.

Here we go again…

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It’s late February again, which can only mean one thing:  I am, once again, awaiting word on my application to grad school. The customary pall of dread I carry around with me this time of year seems a little lighter this time around, for some reason; perhaps it’s just that I’ve gotten so practiced at being rejected that I’ve come to expect it.

Friends and family alike have gamely offered their comfort and support, particularly along the lines of the whole “The third time’s the charm” approach, but I have never attached much credence to the “Three is a magic number” philosophy; the only magic involving the number three for me has been that that is the number of children I have–a case in which the number three has resulted in approximately equal parts magic and chaos, in my opinion.

I think my yearly admissions-angst is also tempered this year by a small amount of annoyance: the program web site does, in fact, state that applicants should receive word by “late February.” Waiting until the 28th, in my opinion at least, takes that statement a bit too literally.

On the other hand, the very real possibility that only those who are being rejected are being made to wait until the very last day of the month for notification has not escaped my attention. After all, the university will only have to send out 12 acceptance letters, but if past years are any indication, they’ll have upwards of 400 rejections to send out–in their position, I’d probably be dragging my feet, too.

So what is next for me? Well, once the formal notification arrives, I’ll have to make a decision about the whole self-publication thing. (Is it too obvious what I believe my notification letter will contain?) Those in favor of self-publication argue that there is no shame in it, citing the names of many famous authors who went that route (Thoreau, Whitman, Twain); purists in the other camp remain unconvinced. Somewhere in the middle is me, and a “mentoring press” that has agreed to publish my novel.

This press does not accept every manuscript they receive (only 1 of 9 are accepted), which makes me feel a little better about it. And I do believe in my book, and that it’s worth publishing and worth reading. But there is still a squeamish little purist worming little holes of doubt into the darker recesses of my mind, whispering that maybe I just haven’t found the right agent yet, or that this submission will be The One.

It’s sort of my thinking that if the university says no, then perhaps it’s time to say yes to the press–but I haven’t reached that point yet.

On the other hand, it is already “late February”, so a decision will be coming soon.

What do you all think about self-publishing? I’d love to know…

That answers that question…

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I hate a cliff-hanger that drags on too long as much as the next person, so let me relieve the suspense for you: I did, in fact, get the job offer.

I did not, in fact, accept it.

What?! I know, I know–crazy. It was a desirable job, to be sure, and the salary and benefits were better than I would’ve hoped for, especially for my chronically underpaid field. The people I met were uniformly kind, offices looked good. So why did I turn it down?

Well, the commute would’ve been lousy, for a start: with no traffic whatsoever, it was 40 minutes. Given that I would never be driving at times of day without traffic, that means I’d be looking at a real-time commute of closer to an hour. That commute really jacked up my need for greater flexibility, something with which they seemed to struggle. When we factored in traffic, sick/vacation days allowed, wear and tear on the car, impact on the kids should there be an emergency–well, even though it was a fair and reasonable offer, for a position I really, really wanted to accept, the cold, hard reality of our situation was that we just could not make it work for our family. I have to give them credit, I think they really tried to meet my needs–but their hands were tied just as tightly as my own. Fooey.

So, back to the drawing board. If nothing else, the process of interviewing and getting an offer, of trying to hammer out what the “right” job situation would be for me, revealed to me that I am, in my heart of hearts, ready to get back out there. It was intensely disappointing to have to walk away from what looked like The Right Opportunity (even though it was housed in the wrong city for me…); I was really surprised by that. And of course, there’s no discounting the fear involved in turning Opportunity away at the door, especially when you feel like she’s kept you waiting far too long as it is. Your brain kicks into high alert, battering away at your soul with questions like “Oh, my gosh, will anyone ever make me a job offer again?” and “Will those good people blacklist me now, since I walked away from a decent offer?” and “Hmm, which pajamas should I wear to the office today?” (Well, given the temps outside this week, I at least have an answer to that last one: my plush fleece ones, of course–you know, the ones that make me look like a giant pink Teletubby.)

Okay, I have to admit–I would’ve missed working in those…

To work or not to work…

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The incredible thing about that title is that for the last decade I’ve been ridiculously lucky enough to have the choice: I’ve been able to choose to be at home raising my kids, with the exception of one brief interlude when our oldest was tiny, since the days they first came into the world. It has been a true blessing, this gift of unlimited time with them (although I must confess, there were some days over the past ten years when I questioned just how much more blessing I could withstand).

But–I had my first “real” job interview in years yesterday, and I felt it went well. So now, I’m finding myself asking that question. I’m not sure where it all will lead at this point–could be that I only thought I did well, but in reality bombed it, and nothing will come of it. Could be I’ll get called in for an additional interview. Or it could be that I’ll pass Go, collect my two hundred dollars, and head straight for an actual job offer.

Many friends, and my husband, have asked me how I feel right now. Honestly? I’m excited, more than I thought I would be, at the prospect of returning to work; I thought I’d be wrestling with a lot more guilt at even contemplating leaving my “babies” than I am–which makes me feel really guilty. Go figure.

What’s driving this desire, I wonder to myself? To most others out there, I’m sure the news of me interviewing at all came as a surprise–I’ve been home for so long that my presence around the house and at all of my children’s school functions, sporting events, and field trips has become an expectation, it’s the status quo. Am I really prepared to give up that unique freedom I’ve enjoyed, that I can always be there for them, because my schedule is totally flexible?

I have been trying to analyze my exuberant reaction to being called for the interview, and I still haven’t been able to place it. It wasn’t a sudden thing, to be sure–in my head, I think I’ve been gearing up for the move back to “the real world” (one sans field trips, volunteering, and weekly morning coffees with my girlfriends) for a couple of years now, at least. When we had talked about it over the years, my husband and I had always said that once the kids were all in school, that’d be the time to get back on the horse.

So–I had the interview, and I thought it went well. Now, of course, comes the bit at which I’m really terrible: waiting for news. What will it be? And what will I say?

Either way, the question will soon be answered, I guess.