Off and Running- Almost

Day after tomorrow it begins. I mentioned that I was about to embark on a new project-an absurdist novel of 50,000 words written in 30 days. I know it will be rough, even with a family vacation stuck in the middle of the 30 days, as well as the closing off of the summer IVY Tech term, but so what? Are there not always extra activities, etc.? Duties, delays, and what-not? Tomorrow is Sunday, and I can get most of my IVY tech stuff out of the way. Then comes Monday morning. Six-thirty and the coffee pot goes off. Then to the Rough Draft for a really rough draft. On the Voss typewriter I need to complete 5 pages. Coherency is not a requirement. Nor is spelling. Nor is grammar. Nor is a decent plot, dialogue, or anything else. What counts is word-count. I don't know when I'll be able to respond again. If I have good days, I'll report that. If not, I'll be sullen and unresponsive. The Gummi bears are praying for me. At least the ones not devoured. They have formed a monastary of sorts. Finding little robes to fit was a problem until they realized they could get their outer layers wet and then roll in lint thus taking on the feel and appearance of velvet. This also keeps them out of mouth's way. Every now and then tell me that I can do this. I will need moral support. Thank you.

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.