September 29, 2006
Between the bridges
It is autumn now in New York. The day is grey, the blanket of clouds hanging low over the Atlantic shore. And the air is damp with a heavy chil that blows up from the harbor.
It came late last night, when the Slope was quiet with sleep--after the bars along Seventh Avenue had brought down their rusted steel gates, and the neon lights had flashed a final flicker before dimming to the cool glass that brands their name. The night started with a calm, the last breath of summer helt quietly in the windless still of twilight; the way a child holds his breath when hearing the steps of a stranger coming down the hall, not to get a better listen of who approaches, but to hide one’s self in the silence.
Amidst the clanging repetition of the subway crossing the steel span of the Manhattan Bridge, LK and I sat on the shore of the East River, peering into the lights of Lower Manhattan. The bridges—at least the only two that really matter in this City, sat on either side of us, like centuries guarding the heights that lift up behind us into Long Island. Five years ago, this stretch of state park had not been completed. DUMBO, as this part of Brooklyn is called for being down under the Manhattan Bridge overpass, was growing with artists moving into old warehouse spaces. But it still lingered with the taste of a more dangerous New York, a New York that seems to linger in the eyes of tourists who file off of busses to get a view of the New York skyline from probably one of the better views in the City.
Now, DUMBO has lifted itself up by the ears, much like its namesake, and become quite a success story for this borough of 2.6 million people. It houses one of the highest concentration of artists in the country; and for a rather small neighborhood, I might say the highest in the whole world. Though the idea of a starving artist doesn’t exist so much hear as it did five or ten years ago. Next to the artist lofs, where artists do indeed receive affordable housing, massive high rise condominiums, with shiny new steel and fresh paint, raise themselves up from the shore, towering the old watch Tower for the Johova Witnesses that sits just over the ramp to the Brooklyn Bridge. The old ice cream stand, that I remember being here before the massive rush of of real estate broakers looking for gold, now charges six dollars for a small milk shake and three dollars for a single scoop. It sits at the old Fulton landing, where the ferry use to carry Long Islanders across the east River into Manhattan, when Brooklyn was the second largest city in the country, before The Bridge was built and New York swallowed her hole like Joana and the fish.
The old landing is probably my favorite place in the City to come and sit and watch the boats and ships ride up and down the East River. Even when a new bus puls up, full of tourists asking where the bathroom is, or how to get onto the bridge to walk back to New York—Don’t they know that this is New York?—this landing seems as peaceful as that first beach of sand that breaks from the marshes on Fire Island.
The night was warm, but today has brought the first real chill of fall. Soon, the tourists will no longer come down to the landing, when the mist from the harbor will turn to frost on the old weathered wooden planks on the landing and Main Street will slow to an almost stop. And this city of nine million will fall into an even deeper silence, as the air conditioners are put away for the winter.
This is when New York is the most beautiful, when it’s the most timeless, when you stand on its shore and hear the same sound George Washington heard when he snuck down to this point with the Continental Army, and escape the massive offensive of the red Coats, leaving Brooklyn for the safety of Manhattan, where they could retreat and reenforce their ranks behind the wall of earth that had been erected behind what now is Wall Street.
But Brooklyn is much safer now than it was then, safer than it was even five years ago. So don’t fret or fear her next time you’re in the City, and come feel the cold ocean breeze fall upon your cheeks and see just how timeless this city is. Because time stand still when you stand between the Bridges and watch the cars race over you on the arms that reach out from Manhattan, and hold fast to its little sister across the water.
It came late last night, when the Slope was quiet with sleep--after the bars along Seventh Avenue had brought down their rusted steel gates, and the neon lights had flashed a final flicker before dimming to the cool glass that brands their name. The night started with a calm, the last breath of summer helt quietly in the windless still of twilight; the way a child holds his breath when hearing the steps of a stranger coming down the hall, not to get a better listen of who approaches, but to hide one’s self in the silence.
Amidst the clanging repetition of the subway crossing the steel span of the Manhattan Bridge, LK and I sat on the shore of the East River, peering into the lights of Lower Manhattan. The bridges—at least the only two that really matter in this City, sat on either side of us, like centuries guarding the heights that lift up behind us into Long Island. Five years ago, this stretch of state park had not been completed. DUMBO, as this part of Brooklyn is called for being down under the Manhattan Bridge overpass, was growing with artists moving into old warehouse spaces. But it still lingered with the taste of a more dangerous New York, a New York that seems to linger in the eyes of tourists who file off of busses to get a view of the New York skyline from probably one of the better views in the City.
Now, DUMBO has lifted itself up by the ears, much like its namesake, and become quite a success story for this borough of 2.6 million people. It houses one of the highest concentration of artists in the country; and for a rather small neighborhood, I might say the highest in the whole world. Though the idea of a starving artist doesn’t exist so much hear as it did five or ten years ago. Next to the artist lofs, where artists do indeed receive affordable housing, massive high rise condominiums, with shiny new steel and fresh paint, raise themselves up from the shore, towering the old watch Tower for the Johova Witnesses that sits just over the ramp to the Brooklyn Bridge. The old ice cream stand, that I remember being here before the massive rush of of real estate broakers looking for gold, now charges six dollars for a small milk shake and three dollars for a single scoop. It sits at the old Fulton landing, where the ferry use to carry Long Islanders across the east River into Manhattan, when Brooklyn was the second largest city in the country, before The Bridge was built and New York swallowed her hole like Joana and the fish.
The old landing is probably my favorite place in the City to come and sit and watch the boats and ships ride up and down the East River. Even when a new bus puls up, full of tourists asking where the bathroom is, or how to get onto the bridge to walk back to New York—Don’t they know that this is New York?—this landing seems as peaceful as that first beach of sand that breaks from the marshes on Fire Island.
The night was warm, but today has brought the first real chill of fall. Soon, the tourists will no longer come down to the landing, when the mist from the harbor will turn to frost on the old weathered wooden planks on the landing and Main Street will slow to an almost stop. And this city of nine million will fall into an even deeper silence, as the air conditioners are put away for the winter.
This is when New York is the most beautiful, when it’s the most timeless, when you stand on its shore and hear the same sound George Washington heard when he snuck down to this point with the Continental Army, and escape the massive offensive of the red Coats, leaving Brooklyn for the safety of Manhattan, where they could retreat and reenforce their ranks behind the wall of earth that had been erected behind what now is Wall Street.
But Brooklyn is much safer now than it was then, safer than it was even five years ago. So don’t fret or fear her next time you’re in the City, and come feel the cold ocean breeze fall upon your cheeks and see just how timeless this city is. Because time stand still when you stand between the Bridges and watch the cars race over you on the arms that reach out from Manhattan, and hold fast to its little sister across the water.
September 24, 2006
where have all the Carters gone?
They say you can take the boy out of the south, but you can't take the south out of the boy. Of course, I think every cultureal group has a similar quip. too, I think I just outed myself that I grew up in the South, as everyone always says to me after I tell them where I'm from, "Wow! You don't sound like you're from georgia?"
Last night, LK and I went to see a facinating documentary on the Evangelic Christian faith. The film, called Jesus Camp,>A>, travels to devil Falls, North dakota
That was probably the most facinating thing about the film, that the children shed more wisdom than the adults who were often quoted throughout the film. I'm amazed that the director could get so close and personal to these children during experiences which, by nature, are very personal, indeed. At first, I thought the children might be seeking attention, as children do. But I think they truly were moved within them. At least, when I was a kid, I could have never imagined doing some of the things they did as a witness of their faith. Of course, when I was a child, I was also an atheist.
Even though I grew up an atheist, the bible belt was always pulled tight around my waist. You can't grow up in georgia without feel the pull of the bible belt. My run-ins with other kids who were evangelic were always messy, to say the least. Especially after they found out I had no faith of my own in anything but science. Though I found that they usually wouldn't spend too much time on me if there was a Catholic near by. Ironic, that I ultimately became catholic years later.
Anyways, the experiences the children had in their camp wasn't too different than from some of the experiences I had going to camp as a child. And I didn't even go to evangelic Christian camp. that's one of the testaments to their faith, that it goes everywhere with them. If anything, I admire the Evangelic Christian for sticking to her or his guns (metaphysicaly, of course) and not backing down in the heat of an arguement. What was interesting in the movie, though, and what I experienced first hand while working in ministry in the Midwest--which wears its Bible belt proudly on the front of its gap jeans--was how reason is thrown out of the window whenever a debate is drawn.
Thomas Aquinus, one of the great philosophers and theologians from the thriteenth century, argued that reason should always be the hand made to faith, that you can use logic to a certain degree, but at one point both parties have to throw in the towel. The nature of the supernatural is just that. It's supernatural, above nature and science and logic and all things we know of in this universe. Nevertheless, rather than take this stance that so often helps in debates on faith, the movie shows ministers and parents using the most deformed logic when instructing their children. from issues of Global Warming, to American powers between Church and State, the film shows a culture that is being indoctrinated with a theology fueled more by politics than by God.
When I was a boy, growing up in the south, there was a show I loved to watch on the television. I'm sure I was watching it while many of my fellow students were praying for the conversion of my soul, God love them all for their charity and dedication. The show was called "Carter country," a sitcom of a small town in North georgia, kind of a Dukes of Hazard meets Benson. Don't know too many other people who saw the show, but it painted life in the south as a mild and easy living, laid back Mabary, North carolina. It had the bumbling mayor and good 'ol boy mentality with the same pig headed characters found in any television snap shot of rural America. But it also had a spirit of real America during a time when the U.S. was being run by a Georgia boy done good. carter was a saint to georgians back in those days. And it was probably only Georgians who watched the TV show, as it had a short run, much like Carter did.
It would do the Democratic party well to find another Carter these days. My experience in ministry these past few years reminded me of the need to serve in our community. It seems that the evangelics seen in this film have lost that sense of service, and have moved more into a fit of fighting. It was the small town Baptist and Presbyterian churches of carter's era that I admired. Carter was also a member of the Lion's club, whose moto is "We serve." And in the small towns throughout Georgia, you always had at least one church and one Lion's club. Though stewardship, as Jesus preached, seems lost in rhetorical baptism by fire in the movie. Not all Christians, or evangelics for that fact, are as full of the spirit as were the children in the film. It would be liek saying all Catholics or Anglicans go to Mass every day.
Anyways, Enough for now.
Last night, LK and I went to see a facinating documentary on the Evangelic Christian faith. The film, called Jesus Camp,>A>, travels to devil Falls, North dakota
That was probably the most facinating thing about the film, that the children shed more wisdom than the adults who were often quoted throughout the film. I'm amazed that the director could get so close and personal to these children during experiences which, by nature, are very personal, indeed. At first, I thought the children might be seeking attention, as children do. But I think they truly were moved within them. At least, when I was a kid, I could have never imagined doing some of the things they did as a witness of their faith. Of course, when I was a child, I was also an atheist.
Even though I grew up an atheist, the bible belt was always pulled tight around my waist. You can't grow up in georgia without feel the pull of the bible belt. My run-ins with other kids who were evangelic were always messy, to say the least. Especially after they found out I had no faith of my own in anything but science. Though I found that they usually wouldn't spend too much time on me if there was a Catholic near by. Ironic, that I ultimately became catholic years later.
Anyways, the experiences the children had in their camp wasn't too different than from some of the experiences I had going to camp as a child. And I didn't even go to evangelic Christian camp. that's one of the testaments to their faith, that it goes everywhere with them. If anything, I admire the Evangelic Christian for sticking to her or his guns (metaphysicaly, of course) and not backing down in the heat of an arguement. What was interesting in the movie, though, and what I experienced first hand while working in ministry in the Midwest--which wears its Bible belt proudly on the front of its gap jeans--was how reason is thrown out of the window whenever a debate is drawn.
Thomas Aquinus, one of the great philosophers and theologians from the thriteenth century, argued that reason should always be the hand made to faith, that you can use logic to a certain degree, but at one point both parties have to throw in the towel. The nature of the supernatural is just that. It's supernatural, above nature and science and logic and all things we know of in this universe. Nevertheless, rather than take this stance that so often helps in debates on faith, the movie shows ministers and parents using the most deformed logic when instructing their children. from issues of Global Warming, to American powers between Church and State, the film shows a culture that is being indoctrinated with a theology fueled more by politics than by God.
When I was a boy, growing up in the south, there was a show I loved to watch on the television. I'm sure I was watching it while many of my fellow students were praying for the conversion of my soul, God love them all for their charity and dedication. The show was called "Carter country," a sitcom of a small town in North georgia, kind of a Dukes of Hazard meets Benson. Don't know too many other people who saw the show, but it painted life in the south as a mild and easy living, laid back Mabary, North carolina. It had the bumbling mayor and good 'ol boy mentality with the same pig headed characters found in any television snap shot of rural America. But it also had a spirit of real America during a time when the U.S. was being run by a Georgia boy done good. carter was a saint to georgians back in those days. And it was probably only Georgians who watched the TV show, as it had a short run, much like Carter did.
It would do the Democratic party well to find another Carter these days. My experience in ministry these past few years reminded me of the need to serve in our community. It seems that the evangelics seen in this film have lost that sense of service, and have moved more into a fit of fighting. It was the small town Baptist and Presbyterian churches of carter's era that I admired. Carter was also a member of the Lion's club, whose moto is "We serve." And in the small towns throughout Georgia, you always had at least one church and one Lion's club. Though stewardship, as Jesus preached, seems lost in rhetorical baptism by fire in the movie. Not all Christians, or evangelics for that fact, are as full of the spirit as were the children in the film. It would be liek saying all Catholics or Anglicans go to Mass every day.
Anyways, Enough for now.
September 07, 2006
Memoir vs. Fiction
Memoir vs. Fiction?
Writing a memoir is no easy task. Some might think of it as just a recollection of short stories over the course of your life, or an edited version of your childhood diary or young adult journal. In some way, these things might help recall the memories of your life, but I’ve found it no easy task to take the events of a life and place them down onto paper.
It’s not that the writing process is difficult. Training, formed skill, and ear for dialogue; these things can all be improved upon over time. Some of it’s natural. But a good part of the process is mechanical. Every person has stories from his or her life. And these stories are often universal enough that others could surely relate to them. The difficult part, then, comes not so much in the technique, but with the emotional ties to the literature.
Fiction can hold a great deal of the writer’s personal life amongst the pages between the jackets. But even behind the book jacket—the cover that is expected to do just that, to cover—there is a great feeling of standing naked before a large audience. To some—maybe those who write more sensational tell all stories—there is an exhibitionist component to writing. But artists are seldom extraverts. And for those striving to become true craftsmen or women, there are fewer exhibitions and more humility.
The memoir I’ve been working on tells more of the life of my father than of myself. He would have been fifty-nine today, and in thirteen years I will have lived the span of his own life. The title I’ve given the memoir thus far is Love is Blind. It deals also with my going totally blind between the ages of 15 and 23 years. Though much of my description surrounding my blindness is more of a metaphor for blindness toward love. It mirrors, in a lot of ways, my own father’s search for love.
I share this because many have asked me just what it is that I write. I write, for the most part, a wide variety of things, this memoir just happening to be the one major work I’m working on at this time. There are many short fiction stories, a play, another non-fiction manuscript, and a novel that are all on the sculpting table. And I’m carving them out of my memory one word at a time.
The memoir has already been written, and I’m currently fine tuning it, thanks much to the help of the couple of you who have been my proof readers (you know who you are and I’m greatly indebted to you). I guess that is why I’m now able to see just how daunting of a task it is to complete such a work. Again, the writing part was the easiest. What has been hardest is the humbling feeling you get when the SASE returns in the mail, and you open it up like a Wonka bar, curious of what lies inside.
My second rejection letter came today. It goes down much smoother than the first. Though you have to keep telling yourself that it’s not the character that has been rejected. With fiction, this isn’t too difficult because of the distance between author and character (although sometimes no distance really exists). The lack of distance is much clearer when writing a memoir, if any distance exists at all.
Seven years of journalism school tells me that the story between the pages is good, is solid, and has a direction that keeps me hopeful. I’m not hoping for great financial reward, as much as the hope that someone will be taken away from their own troubles and toils. And for a couple of hundred pages, they might enter into a place where their mind can grow and see the world differently, as I did when I was blind for so many years. Meanwhile, what I think I need to do is learn how to write better query letters, so that someone will actually see the manuscript.
For now, I just offer up my memoir as a tribute to my father who died twelve years ago this past march. For half a year now, I’ve buried myself in the memories we shared together throughout my childhood. The memories make me miss him more now than I think I have missed him during the decade following his death. But when I read through the pages of the book, I feel as though he’s still here. Maybe that’s why this memoir is so much harder than other writings. I can hear his laugh with each stamp I put on the envelopes.
Anyways, happy birthday Sir. You’re missed, and loved, and fondly remembered during these long nights when I go back through the manuscript and the query letter, trying to think about what adverb I might be able to change, in hopes that it will hook the big catch of the next day. I hope the fishing is good where you are.
Love,
Your Son
Writing a memoir is no easy task. Some might think of it as just a recollection of short stories over the course of your life, or an edited version of your childhood diary or young adult journal. In some way, these things might help recall the memories of your life, but I’ve found it no easy task to take the events of a life and place them down onto paper.
It’s not that the writing process is difficult. Training, formed skill, and ear for dialogue; these things can all be improved upon over time. Some of it’s natural. But a good part of the process is mechanical. Every person has stories from his or her life. And these stories are often universal enough that others could surely relate to them. The difficult part, then, comes not so much in the technique, but with the emotional ties to the literature.
Fiction can hold a great deal of the writer’s personal life amongst the pages between the jackets. But even behind the book jacket—the cover that is expected to do just that, to cover—there is a great feeling of standing naked before a large audience. To some—maybe those who write more sensational tell all stories—there is an exhibitionist component to writing. But artists are seldom extraverts. And for those striving to become true craftsmen or women, there are fewer exhibitions and more humility.
The memoir I’ve been working on tells more of the life of my father than of myself. He would have been fifty-nine today, and in thirteen years I will have lived the span of his own life. The title I’ve given the memoir thus far is Love is Blind. It deals also with my going totally blind between the ages of 15 and 23 years. Though much of my description surrounding my blindness is more of a metaphor for blindness toward love. It mirrors, in a lot of ways, my own father’s search for love.
I share this because many have asked me just what it is that I write. I write, for the most part, a wide variety of things, this memoir just happening to be the one major work I’m working on at this time. There are many short fiction stories, a play, another non-fiction manuscript, and a novel that are all on the sculpting table. And I’m carving them out of my memory one word at a time.
The memoir has already been written, and I’m currently fine tuning it, thanks much to the help of the couple of you who have been my proof readers (you know who you are and I’m greatly indebted to you). I guess that is why I’m now able to see just how daunting of a task it is to complete such a work. Again, the writing part was the easiest. What has been hardest is the humbling feeling you get when the SASE returns in the mail, and you open it up like a Wonka bar, curious of what lies inside.
My second rejection letter came today. It goes down much smoother than the first. Though you have to keep telling yourself that it’s not the character that has been rejected. With fiction, this isn’t too difficult because of the distance between author and character (although sometimes no distance really exists). The lack of distance is much clearer when writing a memoir, if any distance exists at all.
Seven years of journalism school tells me that the story between the pages is good, is solid, and has a direction that keeps me hopeful. I’m not hoping for great financial reward, as much as the hope that someone will be taken away from their own troubles and toils. And for a couple of hundred pages, they might enter into a place where their mind can grow and see the world differently, as I did when I was blind for so many years. Meanwhile, what I think I need to do is learn how to write better query letters, so that someone will actually see the manuscript.
For now, I just offer up my memoir as a tribute to my father who died twelve years ago this past march. For half a year now, I’ve buried myself in the memories we shared together throughout my childhood. The memories make me miss him more now than I think I have missed him during the decade following his death. But when I read through the pages of the book, I feel as though he’s still here. Maybe that’s why this memoir is so much harder than other writings. I can hear his laugh with each stamp I put on the envelopes.
Anyways, happy birthday Sir. You’re missed, and loved, and fondly remembered during these long nights when I go back through the manuscript and the query letter, trying to think about what adverb I might be able to change, in hopes that it will hook the big catch of the next day. I hope the fishing is good where you are.
Love,
Your Son
September 06, 2006
Thanks, but not for us...Best of luck.
The trip down to Topsail Island seems so long ago, though it was only two weeks past since I walked along the sandy shore and felt the heat of summer bearing down on my back.
The weather in New York was hit with a welcomed dose of autumn, after Ernesto passed through last week. within the month's end, the leaves will change their color and begin to line the curbs and iron gates in front of the brownstones. The window air conditioning units will be packed away, and a quiet calm will fal onto the streets of brooklyn, summer visitors returning home after staying in the Slope to visit the city and see friends or family who have ventured hear with dreams of someday making it.
It will have been a full cycle of seasons since the book began, and it seems like there is still so much more distance to travel. This town is big, bigger than life in a lot of ways. And the hurtles to make it hear often seem even bigger.
The first rejection letter arived yesturday in the mail. It was from a literary agent in the city, the few words scribbled on top of the query letter that I mailed, arriving in the self-addressed stamped envelope that is customary to send to agents and publishers when you're trying to sell them on your book. The self-addressed stamped envelope is such an odd part of the writer's life. after you slave for months on a project, each word a work of labor, you then try to squeeze the whole of the book into a few short paragraphs--the form of a letter which is to be sent to people you don't know, in hopes that they might like to get to know you a bit better. It's expected that you include the envelope--writer's know it well as just the SASE, just as well as they know the sour taste of the stamp's glue. And once it's dropped in the blue box, you try to get on with your life, while a part of you sits and waits. You wait to see the letter return in the mail, with the addressed you scribed, the stamp that you carefully placed, thinking that if even the stamp were in the wrong place it might turn off your prospective agent.
I knew there would be rejections. That's just how it works in this field. But there is something strange when you place the stamp on the envelope, in a sense putting the stamp on your own rejection. The envelope was simply folded in on itself, not even sealed. My own burial just lay open, for the whole world to see.
In a lot of ways, that's what the first letter feels like, a burial. And the SASE is a sort of procedure where you dig your own grave, the words of your manuscript falling like strikes of the pick in the soft earth, all 67,015 words falling to the pit of your stomach as you look at the mail sprawled out in front of the door, just below the mail slot, and see the familiar sight of the stamp that you cleverly placed in just the right position.
"Had I gotten the sesame Street stamps, would that have made a diference? Or what if I chose the selected series on famous czec journalists?"
It's important to remember that all great writers got their share of rejection letters. Of course, I'm in no way a great writer. I hope to be, and I'm working hard at it. I think someday I will be a very good writer, much better than I am now. that's what this process is about; it's about getting better at what you dream you can be. If a simple carpenter who never wrote a word in his life could rise from the dead, than who is to say that I can't as well?
I knew this day would come, the first rejection letter. It's like the first kiss, the first drink, the first funeral. Life is full of firsts. And now it's time to put the first behind you, and remind yourself that every writer, every dreamer had that first dream that came true, that kept them dreaming, that kept them keeping on.
I'm off now to listen to Baker street over and over on the IPOD and then check the mail. I just heard the bronze slot open and close a few moments ago, the sound of soft envelopes falling to the floor as the squeeking metal clanked back down on the front of the door.
The weather in New York was hit with a welcomed dose of autumn, after Ernesto passed through last week. within the month's end, the leaves will change their color and begin to line the curbs and iron gates in front of the brownstones. The window air conditioning units will be packed away, and a quiet calm will fal onto the streets of brooklyn, summer visitors returning home after staying in the Slope to visit the city and see friends or family who have ventured hear with dreams of someday making it.
It will have been a full cycle of seasons since the book began, and it seems like there is still so much more distance to travel. This town is big, bigger than life in a lot of ways. And the hurtles to make it hear often seem even bigger.
The first rejection letter arived yesturday in the mail. It was from a literary agent in the city, the few words scribbled on top of the query letter that I mailed, arriving in the self-addressed stamped envelope that is customary to send to agents and publishers when you're trying to sell them on your book. The self-addressed stamped envelope is such an odd part of the writer's life. after you slave for months on a project, each word a work of labor, you then try to squeeze the whole of the book into a few short paragraphs--the form of a letter which is to be sent to people you don't know, in hopes that they might like to get to know you a bit better. It's expected that you include the envelope--writer's know it well as just the SASE, just as well as they know the sour taste of the stamp's glue. And once it's dropped in the blue box, you try to get on with your life, while a part of you sits and waits. You wait to see the letter return in the mail, with the addressed you scribed, the stamp that you carefully placed, thinking that if even the stamp were in the wrong place it might turn off your prospective agent.
I knew there would be rejections. That's just how it works in this field. But there is something strange when you place the stamp on the envelope, in a sense putting the stamp on your own rejection. The envelope was simply folded in on itself, not even sealed. My own burial just lay open, for the whole world to see.
In a lot of ways, that's what the first letter feels like, a burial. And the SASE is a sort of procedure where you dig your own grave, the words of your manuscript falling like strikes of the pick in the soft earth, all 67,015 words falling to the pit of your stomach as you look at the mail sprawled out in front of the door, just below the mail slot, and see the familiar sight of the stamp that you cleverly placed in just the right position.
"Had I gotten the sesame Street stamps, would that have made a diference? Or what if I chose the selected series on famous czec journalists?"
It's important to remember that all great writers got their share of rejection letters. Of course, I'm in no way a great writer. I hope to be, and I'm working hard at it. I think someday I will be a very good writer, much better than I am now. that's what this process is about; it's about getting better at what you dream you can be. If a simple carpenter who never wrote a word in his life could rise from the dead, than who is to say that I can't as well?
I knew this day would come, the first rejection letter. It's like the first kiss, the first drink, the first funeral. Life is full of firsts. And now it's time to put the first behind you, and remind yourself that every writer, every dreamer had that first dream that came true, that kept them dreaming, that kept them keeping on.
I'm off now to listen to Baker street over and over on the IPOD and then check the mail. I just heard the bronze slot open and close a few moments ago, the sound of soft envelopes falling to the floor as the squeeking metal clanked back down on the front of the door.
