It’s funny how things balance out, how good and bad events so often seem to pair themselves, to follow on each others’ heels despite having no apparent connection beyond the fact that they’re personally happening to you. At least, that seems to happen to me all the time. I have to assume that it happens to others, too, that I’m not some karmic divining rod. It’s like a religious tenet to me, in fact, an aphorism proven true through experience: When good things happen, bad things are on their way. When the bad things come, good follows. Each leads into the other, like endless waves crashing ashore.
I’ve had quite a few story rejections lately. That by itself is nothing new, and I think that any writer worth his salt treats these like a duck does water on its back. After all, getting rejections as a writer really amounts to little more than those mindless “how’re you doings?” from strangers on the street. They mean nothing. They barely warrant response. They’re a necessary part of the background, like clouds.
But just like not all clouds are equal, some rejections mean more than others. Like the one I had the other day from a small press that had been making some very promising noise about the short story collection I’ve finally pulled together. Crushing, really, because it seemed so much like a go. Surprising, too, to discover that you can still be stunned, that your leathery skin isn’t quite so thick as you’d imagined.
And then, bam bam, head and gut, two more fast blows. First, learning that the reading for A Cappella Zoo at this year’s AWP conference in DC has been canceled. What a fun night that would have been. Then, to finish off the day, two fresh story rejections sent within 15 minutes of each other waiting in the evening’s email.
Those sort of things start to add up.
But a new day brings sunrise. I applied a while back to the 2011 Sirenland Writers Conference in Positano, Italy. Filled out the application, sent some writing samples, paid my fee, then waited. Waited long enough that, eventually, I forgot that I’d applied. Which, really, is the best way to deal with waiting for anything—forget about it, then get surprised. In my case, the surprise was an emailed invitation to attend. March 27 through April 2—my birthday. It is expensive. A week in Italy at a nice hotel in what looks like one of the most beautiful seaside villages on earth. Food and travel expenses. Spending money. Not to mention a week off work. I’ve been waffling all day, trying to decide whether the whole thing would really be worth it in the end. I was, truth be told, leaning toward a “thanks, but not this year” response when I started composing this post.
But I think I’ve talked myself out of that. I think I’m going to take this good news and run with it. And I’m going to hope that I’m due at least a little more of the same before the waves turn bad again.