Ramshackle Houses, my collection of poetry and creative nonfiction that I have been prattling on and on about for the past couple of weeks, has been completed and submitted. After all that prattling, after my reading friends put up with a half-dozen rewrites and all my bitching and moaning, and after pounding away at this thing for three solid weeks determined to get it done for a specific submission, I almost didn’t go through with it.
I’ve stayed low the past thirty-six hours or so, mulling over the absolute lack of relief. I should have felt relieved, right? Instead, I let the manuscript lie around here since Tuesday, refusing to look at it, wondering why I didn’t feel good about finishing my first major writing goal.
Then I woke up at 4 a.m. today and said, Fuck it.
I finished the damn thing, might as well do with it what I intended. Yes, it was an emotional journey (that began more than three years ago). Yes, I am grateful for the free time to finally work on it. Yes, I did expect to feel a great deal of relief and pride, and the intoxicating effects of accomplishment. Whatever. It’s time to get over myself and write something else.
Rejection, or acceptance, can be expected in about thirty days.