My mother’s favorite word was “Shit!” and she wasn’t even a writer. She was a Southerner, though, and that probably explains it.
This morning, “On Writing #3” was a short essay describing the next phase of the writing of my autobiographical novel. It followed smoothly and logically from “On Writing #2”– some thoughts on the first four pages and the elaborate techniques I developed to avoid writing them. All as planned. These are, after all, summaries of the stages of a completed novel. They are re-workings of my original on-the-spot reporting of the process as it unfolded, lost to me–and, no doubt, to the ages–by the recent flame-out of my three-year-old website and blog. I am able, with a little effort, to blame this not-entirely-unexpected event on any number of villains, but the real culprit was the fact that I had no hand in the building of that site and hadn’t taken the time to learn enough to save it.
However, I digress.
In one twenty-four-hour period, John McCain died, Neil Simon died, and my autobiographical novel was rejected by the most significant of the three literary competitions to which I submitted it.
Possibly “rejected” is too strong a word. I made it into the list of 158 semi-finalists, a fact that might have ameliorated the pain somewhat except that it came immediately before I learned that being a semi-finalist did not constitute being a “winner” and therefore, if I wish to revise and resubmit for next year, I am eligible, along with the people whose names appear nowhere but whose manuscripts have been judged–not just inadequate for a prize–but “rejected as not ready to place.” I can’t help wondering if anyone spoke up in favor of a search for a gentler word than “rejected.”
Whatever the case, during the period between submitting the manuscript in March and receiving today’s email, I have already made substantial changes. In order to re-submit (not until December), I must attach to the newly minted book a letter describing my revisions and making a case for a reconsideration. Already I’m worrying that they won’t even let it in the door.
The subject of the rejected (let’s just say it) novel is my mother’s family, and I found the whole experience of writing it both painful and transformative.
Tentatively, cautiously, I am feeling my way towards a novel about my paternal grandmother, and have begun, as I seem to do, with images, photographs of the fifteen-year-old girl who married a twenty-seven-year-old cavalry officer, a boarder in her parents’ home, and just nine months later gave birth to my father. She was a beautiful girl. This photograph was taken on her wedding day.