Back when I was a Girl Scout, I went to camp every summer. Even the littlest campers were expected to help out with chores, both in their individual units and in the larger campground. One week, I was assigned to rake the pine straw off the sandy path from one area to another after breakfast each morning. One day, I was making progress, raking the path in long steady strokes. A counselor I didn’t know came up to supervise. Unhappy with my progress, she shouted, “Speed it up!” I was stunned and hurt. I was doing the best I could with my scrawny, little girl arms.
The next morning, I different counselor came along to monitor the chores. She said, as best as I can remember, “You’re doing a great job. You must have a lot of experience raking.” Now, of course, I was doing the exact same job in exactly the same way, which was the best I could and the only way I knew how. What changed was the viewer, not me or my work. I remember this every time I send out a submission. You don’t know who’s on the other end, the reading end. So, if you’ve done your best work, had it critiqued if possible, made revisions, followed the guidelines meticulously, then you can’t control the reaction of the editor or first reader.
I know I’ve told the story before of a piece I submitted to an anthology many years ago. The piece was not selected. But when I got the scores from the judges, it was more amusing than hurtful. One judge had give the story high marks on all criteria. One judge scored the story right down the middle. And the third judge had given the story all low marks, right down the line. So, what the heck? The wildly different reactions to the exact same story could only be the result of something in the judges themselves. I know from this and other experiences, rejections don’t mean my work is bad. It just means, not here, not now. I also know this because that same story was accepted and published in a different anthology a few years later. Keep writing, keep believing in yourself, keep submitting, keep finding new markets–keep trying. That’s my plan.
No, not with my writing. (I wish.) But with my consumption of books. Years ago, I had a super long commute to and from work, 75 miles each way. I naturally thought it would be a great time to listen to audio books. Total failure. My mind was too busy with planning work projects or with problems there or at home. I just couldn’t pay attention. So, I gave up, thinking I just didn’t have the kind of mind to absorb audio books. Then I married a man who was nearly blind. I began to get him audio books in various forms, some from the library and some from a paid subscription service. He gobbled them up, and I was a bit envious that he had that option. Somehow, after he died, I never canceled his paid service, but also never thought I’d use it. After all, I had plenty of money to buy books, and had several libraries nearby. BUT–
Or maybe even every second. I have a writing project on my desk. I’m stuck. Can’t think of new idea, can’t think where to take the ideas that I do have. Should I sit here until I have some kind of breakthrough? I’ve already been doing that, for an hour, with no tangible results. Judging by appearances that method is not working, even though it has in the past. BUT–there’s this program at the library that I told everybody I would attend. It starts in 15 minutes. Should I abandon my temporarily stuck project? Or stick to it till I muddle through, knowing I can fix it later.? But, if I’m not getting anywhere, aren’t I just embedding the sense of failure and ineptitude? If I go out, be amongst people, learn something new, will I then come back refreshed and, likely, with new ideas or a new direction? Or do I judge solely on what’s most important to me. Well, it’s all important to me. New experiences, as well as my work. As a writer, as human, as someone who wants to “have it all”, I make these choices constantly. Do I choose wisely? I can’t say that I always do. And I won’t tell you what I’ll do this time. What choices do you make in your life. Which ones further your writing. Which ones bring you the most joy? Can they be the same? Yes, or no?
Yesterday I put my last submission of the year in the mail. (This was one of those rare markets where you actually send in a paper copy.) And I did it despite all contrary conditions. Despite the printer running out of ink. (I had a supply of cartridges, but installing a new one took precious minutes.) Despite my cat pestering me incessantly for attention. Despite the pressure of an 11:00 AM appointment. Despite having a crisis moment when I forgot how to perform certain formatting functions in Word. Despite all the piled up after holiday chores, nagging at the corner of my eye. Despite my own misgivings about the story: was it good enough? Had I made it the best I possibly could? Won’t they get hundreds of submissions and do I even have a chance? Despite all the obstacles and set-backs, I did it anyway. That’s just what I do. It’s just what we do. We writers.
I’m not one for nostalgia. I don’t view the past with some hazy golden glow. I remember all too well the struggles, heartbreaks and hard work of my younger years. Besides, I’m happy now, so the past holds little attraction for me. There is one area, however, where I do tend to dwell on the past. I remember and relive my past writing successes and triumphs, publications and awards. I review in my mind work I published long ago, or last year. While I’m proud of them, I also keep thinking of ways I could have made them better. Well, that ship’s sailed. Okay, it’s possible I might gather and reprint some of them into a collection, in which case I can make some additional tweaks. But, barring that, they’re done, over with, and in many cases, forgotten. In fact, as I look back at some of them, they deserve to be forgotten.
In my 
Ideas, it seems to me, are like stray cats. First of all, they’re everywhere, even when you can’t see them. Sometimes, especially when you can’t see them. Sometimes you see them, try to approach them, and they dart away. Feral, you know. Other times, you see one, it allows you to pick it up, it nestles in your arms, and is thrilled to be found. But, occasionally, one shows up in your yard. You didn’t notice it arriving, just, suddenly, there it is. It may run away if you try to touch it, but after you retreat, it may stay and hang around. Kind of always there in the background. If you leave out a bit of food, it may wait till you’re not looking, then take a nibble. If it starts to eat regularly, word gets around, and other stray cats are likely to show up. If you begin to nurture them, rather than ignore them, they stick around. Eventually, one or more may become tame enough for you to bring it inside, get rid of the fleas and other flaws, and teach it good behavior, like using the litter box. Soon you have a well-nourished, healthy, flourishing cat. Then, like ideas that you have developed into a healthy piece of writing, you try to find it a home. When that happens, you’ve made room for the next cat–or rather idea.
Writing can be overwhelming. It’s like any other huge job. Getting a college or advanced degree. Cleaning out the garage. Getting your affairs in order, for when you die. All the advice books tell you to break it all down into small, manageable steps. Then take that first step. But, for writing, what is the smallest possible step? Here’s what I’ve come up with:
“A definite purpose, like blinders on a horse, inevitably narrows its possessor’s point of view.” Robert Frost
Lida Bushloper 