Well, There Goes My Nails

Hello again! See, I told you was going to start making regular blog posts! I bet you didn't expect that resolution to followed! 

Anyways...

     Sometime during last week, I'm unsure of the exact day because without any sort of repetition in my basic schedule I can't keep track of what day it is, I took a bold new step. I submitted a personal essay of mine to a literary magazine. I believe I mentioned it in my last post. I wanted to be super ridiculous and submit it to The New Yorker because then I'd be sure to get a real rejection letter (one that I could frame), but I couldn't find any clear guidelines for a print submission as opposed to an email submission.

    When I posted a status about it to Facebook (yes, I still use it, just like millions of others) I used the phrase "let the three months of nail-biting begin" or something akin to that. According to The Sun's website (which I found incredibly well-designed) it takes at least three months for them to process your submission and get back to you (which seems to be a pretty standard time frame). What I meant by the aforementioned status is that no matter what I'm doing or where I am that moment, the thought of my submission and it's upcoming fate will be ever in the back of my mind.

     I can't help but wonder at what my reaction will be when I get the results. If I am published, I'll probably have the same reaction I had when I received a letter from Christopher Paolini in reply to one I had written him. I screamed and danced like a middle school who just met Robert Pattinson. I'm really glad I wasn't recorded in anyway.

     Now, if I'm rejected, I don't really know what will happen. I'll at least frame the rejection letter because it'll make me feel like a real writer. Other than that, well, I guess it could go a few different ways. I could laugh it off, I guess. I could dig my heels into the ground and become super inspired. I could also sink into one of my periods of depression. None of these are mutually exclusive by the way.

    One thing is for certain, I'll keep writing, because that's just what I do.

    As writers, if this is something you plan stick with (think long hard about; it's a decision not to be made flippantly),  then you're going to have to deal with a lot of Stuff. On the best days, you'll feel one possessed by a muse, the words flowing off your tongue or your pen like so many drops of rain off of a tin roof in a summer storm. On the worst days, you'll feel self-doubt. You'll feel ridiculous. You'll feel like freaking out and screaming. You'll question yourself about why you even bother. At times, heaven forbid, you'll feel like giving up.

    Don't.

    I can't promise it will get better because I am not experienced enough to have that kind of information, 

and, from I've gathered, I don't think it does. You will always have bad days at times.

   If writing, if being a writer is truly something you love then isn't it worth it? Isn't worth fighting for even if the biggest enemy you face happens to be yourself? Like with all truly good things, the answer  is yes.