Thursday, May 13, 2004

New York City has had Thunderstorms Monday through Wednesday and they are very exciting. All the rain, lights and sounds. I must admit the loud noises do make me jump and yell a bit.

Rejection stinks. At least I think it is rejection. I submitted some articles and entered a cooking contest. I took me a while to think of an original recipe. I haven't heard back from any of the places. Niel gave me the support I needed when I was down about this. Always does. He said "Your writing is just not the for them. It doesn't mean the articles are bad." I tend to be hard on myself. I don't know why this is. Most of my life I have felt like I was in a race and I had to be good at everything. Since meeting Niel I know that I don't have to. But since not hearing from these places I submitted to; I have been afraid to try to even finish the books I have started on. I really want to. I even purchased a book to give me guidance as how to publish children's books; but got scared off. I know it is not like I am not busy with a full time job, playing, home responsibilities and would rather spend time with the most fabulous man on the planet. I just really have to get cracking on my goals. Even if it will take a while. I should allow myself a little each day to work on these stories. I just feel like since the articles did not get published, what if the stories won't? I keep reading blogs about how I should at least try and that is the entire point. I tried. Better than not trying. Which I agree with. I don't normally talk about stuff that bums me out. What is the point? I rather go along with the The Superhero's March 15 philosophy:

"(There are so many ways to tell a story) And yet, it is also a choice, what I choose to tell.
What is the story we want to tell about our life?
What are the stories we want to remember when we're old?
This journal is often the place of forgetting for me. The place where I am reminded (through sharing) of the beauty of the world, of the colors and brilliant landscapes, of the talent and wisdom of artists, writers and friends.
I've kept journals for most of my life, and most of them are downright depressing. They are wrought with struggle, confusion, insecurity and sharp pain. They are utterly excruciating to read now. (I'm sure you all have similar journals?!) It seems that I was only inspired to write when I was going through something really painful, so that is what I am left with- a collection of painful stories. It doesn't really tell the whole truth. (Were my 20's that bad?)
Several years ago, I decided to keep a visual journal, one with few words, but full of photographs, quotes, tickets stubs, candy wrappers, wishes, drawings and love notes. It became a quilt of my experience, and told a completely different story. These journals are more like footprints of my life (without the judgment and cynicism of the moment) simply tracks, things that passed through. It gave texture to my remembering. It felt wider and more full. It allowed for more joy."

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