Tag: Short Stories

Old door, Tribeca, NYC, 2018
Writing About Writing

Rejections Are Opportunities

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Old door, Tribeca, NYC, 2018
Photo by Pamela Weis – Old door, Tribeca, NYC, 2018

It’s not that it hurts so horribly, getting a rejection, or a “decline,” which I think is a bit softer, but it does sting a tiny bit. I appreciate the kindness of the letters I have received so far, and there have been only three, so it’s not like I am racking up tons of “NO”s just yet, but I know it’s coming. I will inevitably have a huge email folder overflowing with gentle rejections. Hopefully those will be semi-balanced by a handful of “YES”s. I believe they will. Eventually. The doors are not closed to me forever. And there are many doors from which to choose.

Finding the right fit for my writing is one of the most difficult parts of this process. There are so. many. journals. Some have been around for decades, others are new and eager to discover new authors. I have no vanity about where I am published. I’m happy to try whatever feels right. While it would be nice to have a “recognizable name” on my list of credits, that is not why I am doing this. And that is something I need to remember. It’s easy to get caught up in the process of submitting, revising, submitting, revising, submitting. It’s easy to focus on where I should plant my flag. It’s easy to read short stories by others who are published and say, yes that is something like me. Or no, that is nothing like me. Or, how in the hell did that get published? Or, how can I ever write that well? I sometimes have to remind myself that I am doing this–the writing part–because I love it. It makes me feel whole. It is not helpful to compare my writing to that of anyone else’s. And most of the time I am good at pushing those thoughts out of my head, but they are sneaky. A writer will produce a particularly gorgeous sentence or paragraph and I think, damn, I wish I’d written that. Could I have written that? No, of course not. It did not come from my brain. What are the odds of the exact same sentence, phrase, or paragraph coming from more than one person’s brain? I mean okay, if it’s something like, “I ate dinner,” or “Life is hard,” then sure. But if it’s something like, “The nose on that man reminds me of a ski slope I crashed on a few years ago,” or “It’s best to check your vegetables halfway through roasting to make sure you’re not turning them into shriveled bits of carbon,” it’s unlikely anyone else would write those exact same words in that exact same order. I don’t know the odds. I’m not a statistician. I studied theater and anthropology. The point is, we each have our own voice. Part of this process is not only finding that voice, but embracing it. Loving it. Finding comfort and challenge and inspiration in it.

I keep writing a new short story every week, more or less, so I don’t have a lot of time for more revisions and more submissions, but that’s okay. I don’t want to get too caught up in that aspect of being a writer. It’s important, of course, and it is a goal, but it’s not what drives me. I suppose it’s different for everyone, but for me the most important part is just doing it–every day, even if I feel distracted or frustrated or if Shuri cat is crawling all over me and I have to type with one hand. It’s worth it.

Nyxie the cat sits on a laptop
Writing About Writing

Time of the Cats

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Photo by Pamela Weis – Nyxie takes over the work laptop

I started writing this post when it had been just over four weeks of doing my day job from home. That was in March. Obviously, I did not finish that post and now what I have to say has completely mutated into something else.

Working from home is great. The cats have certainly enjoyed my constant presence. Contrary to popular notions of cats wanting their humans to get the hell out, our cats spend much of our new quality time together goading me to play with them, sleeping on my desk (or work laptop), and crawling all over me while I attempt to work. Yeah, they like having me home. I know I am not alone in this, and I have mixed feelings about their attentions. I love our cats as if they were human children and relish the extra time with them, but sometimes I do wish our apartment had another room…with a door.

Photo by Pamela Weis – Shuri insists on being the center of attention

Amidst all of this upheaval, I have struggled to maintain a regular writing schedule. I actually have more time – about 45 minutes more each day. Yet somehow, I am writing less during my morning writing sessions. Not because I sit there and type less or because I am struggling to get the words out, but because I either sleep too late or spend more of that extra time on social media. It’s probably not healthy.

Nevertheless, I have written a fair amount of new stuff since March. I finished another novel (another first draft, that is). And I submitted a short story to a journal. This was a huge leap for me. I fully expect it to be rejected, but we all have to start putting our work out there at some point. I will keep doing that no matter how scary it is.

I’ve also been editing the first novel I finished. Editing is satisfying. It doesn’t provide the same creative outlet as writing something completely new, but it appeals to that part of my brain that likes digging into messy details and making them neat and tidy.

The funny thing about all this stay-at-home-ness is that I feel much less stressed and anxious. I am more content in general. I like being home. I like not seeing other people. Of course I miss friends and family and even my work colleagues, but it would take much longer than 3 1/2 months for me to miss them so much that I would go out of my way to make contact. And I am really hoping I can talk my boss into letting me work from home indefinitely. That doesn’t make me a bad person. It makes me an introvert. It also makes our cats very happy.

The High Line extension, before the renovations
Writing About Writing

The First Short Story

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Photo by Pamela Weis – The High Line 2013

A few months ago, I sat down one evening to write. It was approximately 8:00. By 9:30, I had finished a short story. It’s four pages long. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. It takes place in a location I know well. I think it’s…decent.

I have since started working on a second draft of this maybe-just-okay story. I will eventually submit it somewhere.

The short story came from a desire to practice my fiction writing without the commitment of a full length novel. I am working on a novel, and it feels a little weird to say that, but I had put it aside for awhile to do some research. I figured I would try my hand at shorter prose and see what happened.

Previous short story attempts did not go far. Every single story that I started, up until this one story, the story that I finished, petered out within hours; I thought it was boring, and I just let it be. I have many years worth of story starters that I will probably never finish. The situations and characters did not hold my interest. And if they didn’t hold my interest, they certainly would not hold the interest of a future reader. As you might imagine, when I actually managed to complete that first story, it was a pretty big deal.

In the months following that first short story, I somehow managed to churn out a second one! This is really too much for me. It deserves champagne and a night out or at least some chocolate; but like the first story, the second one is probably just okay. Maybe that doesn’t matter. The point is that I did it! I should be proud of myself for the effort! Yes. I am proud of myself. But I recognize that these little stories of mine are not yet ready for sharing, and that tempers the thrill. They are too rough, too unformed, too much the result of a newbie fiction writer.

In the coming weeks and months, I will write and rewrite and rewrite again until they are ready. There’s no rush and I’m enjoying the journey. In time, I will share.