Let me make sense for a sec…
Well I’m applying for this Breadloaf Writer’s Conference. And even though I feel “eh” on applying rejection has been happening quite frequently for me. This time last year I was to the point of not caring or wanting to write at all. Contemplated a career change and having tackling my 3rd career in this life.
You see I’ve already been a grocer and now I’m a educator. I’ll be 30 in a little over a year by the way. At this time in my fathers life he would have an 8 year old that would almost be 9. And I remember 3rd grade pretty clearly. Crazy to think I’ve passed the age my pops was when he had capable children.
As for the writing sorry I got off track…This time last year Cave Canem put me on a wait list even though I was a returning fellow. A close friend of mine had gotten the word he was in to return and sent his letter after me. I blame Chicago USPS for this fully and at times like that don’t care how many post offices get closed. They obviously aren’t functioning to their fullest potential.
Speaking of functioning…well let me stop. I was gonna mention something about the railroads. But I won’t.
So with getting wait listed and all the poetry journal rejections it was pretty disheartening. I mean I’ve been writing for the better part of 18 years. I’m pretty well practiced. But it’s always good to see your work in print and out there in the world in some medium.
Which is odd since it’s all about the words and this Conference isn’t really a publication but in many ways I feel “eh” and many ways I actually care. I think I can take rejection this time around. Last year though I might have just found a nice hard spot on the floor to lie on for a while. Don’t ask me what that means. But at times mattresses and pillows feel to welcoming. The floor just feels proper.
Keep in mind I don’t proof read anything I write here. Not sure if it makes it feel more organic or shows how bad of a grammarian I am.
I was born and raised outside of Cleveland in a black area of a white city. In other words I had a good public education. I had some teachers who inadvertently and overtly supporting all the crazy short stories I did.
My 4th grade teacher gave me an award for creative writing at the end of the school year. We never did any creative writing in class. But it was known that I wrote crazy short stories. And guess what…15 years later Columbia College Chicago awarded me a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. John Murillo said “you needa apply to Cave Canem” James Shea said “you’re writing’s stronger when you break the narrative” Dr. Weinbrenner said “why are you in journalism you’re a English student.” My moms said “that’s good you’re doing something with your life and not out in the street like some of these niggas around here.”