This is my inbox:
And staring at it does nothing to help.
Category: freakouts
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I was telling a coworker today that I think I am being tested.
She leaned in, eyes wide, By who? she said.
I waved my hands to indicate everything and everyone around us.
She whispered: By the Powers That Be here at [Our Company]?
And I’m like, Oh no, I mean the universe. The universe is testing me, not the publisher.
Just the universe then? she said.
But then we agreed that was much worse.
My coworker said she doesn’t think she’s being tested right now because I seem to be going through a lot more than she is so more likely she’s just stressed.
I told her maybe she could be tested next. The universe is all hers, as soon as she wants it.
Thanks, she said.
Anytime, I said.
(Universe? I am on to you.)
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I have asked E to block unexpected rejection letters, as he’s the one who usually gets to the mailbox first. He’ll hide them somewhere in the apartment to bring out at times when my skin is thicker, when I can handle hearing the continuous chorus of No’s a little better.
Early this morning I had a feeling. He was asleep, the rain was pounding—a continuous sheet of it out the window—and I was actually on time for work for once. I had an inkling: There is a rejection letter somewhere in this room. I went to a popular spot on the bookshelf and saw it hidden between two How-To books: that white business-size envelope with my name and address in my own handwriting on the front. The dreaded SASE. One side was opened, as I had asked E to screen them: if good, pass them on. If bad, leave them for later. Obviously, since this one was left for later, it was a bad one.
Part of me wished I hadn’t read it so early in the morning. Or at all.
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On the way in to work this morning I ran into a poet on the street. I knew her from this past winter, when we were at a writers colony together. She asked how my writing was going since I left the colony. I said it wasn’t going. And she shook her head, said Oh, said my name, just looked at me. As if in terrible disappointment.
Yeah, it’s true. I am a disappointment.
The other truth is that I saw her first on the corner and pretended I didn’t see her. I guess the reminder of what my “real life” is was too much and I didn’t want to talk about it, have her ask me the question she asked me, have to admit I really haven’t written since I got home. But she started calling my name, and I had to pretend to be surprised, and I stopped, and chatted, and ending up being late for work.
It could be a good thing, a reminder of what else is out there beyond my everyday existence. Or it could be a reprimand for being so lazy and not working hard enough at what I am supposed to do.
Either way, she walked away, looking healthy, happy, having written I’m sure that very morning. I should say that she is immensely talented. I loved her poems. She continued on east, and I continued on south, and I wonder if I’ll ever be what I keep saying I am.
distraction no.99 