Why discuss the weather.

A brief excerpt from the novel in progress:
The common lesson of the land was one of begrudging acceptance of the circumstances that were beyond either control or reckoning. While the weather was the frequent topic of many conversations everyone knew the weather was merely the opportunity to have an exceptionally safe discussion. Neighbors could compare the amount of rain found in the rain gauges down to the quarter of an inch and some like Bob Higgins were known to always fudge the amount to their favor, no heated arguments would arise over the matter. Conversations about the weather taught acceptance, an unthinking, cattle-like acceptance that this is how ones’ earthly life is supposed to be spent. Like the children in the valley who learned early on to eat what was placed in front of them regardless of taste or texture of the plate’s contents, all learned to take whatever was dished out with thanksgiving.

Acceptance is a delightful word

Acceptance is a delightful word. Except for the few hardened hermits who have completely turned away from the company of others, we seek acceptance from some community, be that a community of one other or several. For writers this is critically important because writing is both creative and solitary. Creativity, as has been discussed, puts one on the fringe of the culture, if not out of the circle altogether. When the creative act is done in solitary, a fear of the May Nots lurks about the corners. It May Not be truly creative, but shallowly derivative. Consider the young man Mary Ann mentioned in class on Thursday. He assumed he was creative when he was not. Or the work May Not be any good, but merely banal. It May Not within the boundaries of understandability but so idiosyncratic that it moves Finnegan's Wake into the realm of clarity. (I had one Joyce scholar tell me that no one could understand what Finnegan's Wake was about. I haven't read it, still trying to work through Ulysses.)
Against the May Nots comes Acceptance. Yesterday I received news that a piece I had submitted to a literary review had been accepted. The review is wordriver out of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Late last semester some one had posted an announcement saying that wordriver was seeking submissions from adjuncts. I submitted a story; they accepted. Which means that my writing has some value and validity. That I'm not what I feared- a banal hack so cut off from the judgements of the world that my writing is less than valueless. A mediocre writer so disconnected from others' writings that the mediocrity is presumed greatness. Yes, I realize I write in hyperbole but this is how the untamed mind tends to go.
Being accepted is bit like hearing, "well done, good and gentle servant," only it is the Muse who is speaking through the editor. Being accepted is working to revitalize a flagging spirit. Yes, the spirit flags in the face of "reality" (a term with so many variant meanings that I wonder if it has any meaning at all outside an economic one and even that is suspect). I will receive more rejections- some are probably in the pipeline, but not always. Notices of acceptance are also out there, wondering about, looking for a home, looking for my home. I will welcome them.