New Yorker Submission

What I have been doing you ask?  I’ve been holed up in the Birdcage painting, writing, thinking, reviewing, punching canvases in anger.  It’s really not as bad as it sounds.

I decided it was time to start making a Mandala.  So after about 3 hours of working on it…I decided I hated. it.  So I tore everything off, began berating myself as an artist and tried to punch a hole in the canvas.

( Note to fellow angry artists:  You gotta be one strong SOB to punch a hole in there.  Maybe I’m just a puny weakling.  Whatever…I busted my knuckles up pretty good and the canvas doesn’t have a scratch on it.  Go punch one and see for yourself.)

I’m one of those people who tear down their creations when they start going or looking bad.  If I still had every single piece I’ve ever done, it’s no doubt fill up a small art museum.  Or garage.  So I’ve made a pretty strong commitment to cut myself a little slack and not destroy something if it doesn’t meet my obscenely high expectations.  Writing included.  No wadding up half-finished essays and poems.  I now have a special box they go in.  I don’t know why.  Maybe for future ideas if I get stuck…something to laugh at in my elder years.

The point is…I refuse to look back in ten years and say..”Dang.  I wish I would’ve kept painting….I could’ve written that book…” So.  A few days ago I submitted my first manuscript to The New Yorker.  It’s no secret that I have “A Plan” when it comes to The New Yorker.  I plan on submitting every time they open the door and start accepting.  Maybe in 15 years, one of the older editors will look at one of the younger editors and say, “Ya know, Hank.  Let’s give this broad a chance.  If anything, it’ll keep her out of our hair for the next 25 years.”

I got my formal reply saying they’d received my manuscript and I’d hear back from them within three months.  I’m trying to think positive here.  I’ve got just as much chance as anyone else, right?  Anyway, in order to be rejected, SOMEONE has to sit up in there and read my work.  And isn’t that what writing is all about?  Letting other people read your work?   Even if you spray paint it on an over-pass.  Put your stuff out there.

I posted a pic of my favorite New Yorker cover….it’s titled “Missed Connections”.  I know, right?  Hold your heart and say “Ahhh….the tragedy of it!”  I wonder how often this type of thing goes down?  Two souls randomly bumping into one another…feeling some type of spiritual and unexplainable connection….then the train doors shut and you watch them fade away like mist.  I wonder if that connection stays with them for the rest of their lives?  I’d like to think it does.  I guess I’m a hard-core softie like that. So stay tuned on the whole New Yorker thing.  I’m just about finished with another manuscript to shoot off to The Sun here within a month or so.

Hmm…how to tie up this post….why, with a thought-provoking quote, of course!

“Our soul-mate is the one who makes life come to life.” ~ Richard Bach


2 Responses

  1. é muito bom lê suas cronicas é direta, o cotidiano quem sabe de mim mesmo? As ilustrações vem muito bem acompanhadas . sucesso se permitir publico no meu blog

  2. Been there, doing that…. It’s all part of the battle. By the way, I subscribe to “The Sun” and enjoy it. I’ve been thinking of sending some of my poetry to them. Keep plugging and something will eventually work.

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