The Narrative of Rejection

As a writer I should be comfortable with the idea of rejection. Yet somehow it always catches me, picks me up, and slams me on the floor. I lose my breath for a minute, or hour, before regaining consciousness. It is not the rejection per say, but the narrative that I create surrounding that rejection. I cannot simply accept the rejection as is, a statement that I would not fit into the environment in which I believed I would fit. I instead create the backstory, it is not only the employer, the publication, or the friend rejecting me, it is the greater community at large which does not feel as if I am worthy. I become the martyr in my own play, hated by all and on the path to ruin and homelessness. This narrative creation within my egomaniacal conscious mind can be harnessed for good as well as evil however. That backstory in which I recently indulged can be used as fodder for a short story. I can watch myself cycle through the stages of grief and rejection, of wallowing in self-pity and then meditate, have a smoothie, and sit down to write. I can cultivate gratitude for my amazing life, as it is at this very moment (minus the deer flies and humidity) and sit down to write a post. A close friend of mine says that "rejection is God's protection," and I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment (when I am not in the midst of being rejected). I have been ignoring that small voice inside that is telling me to write, to rest, to explore creativity, to pray, to hang upside down and then nap. I am attempting to fit my square pegged self into a round hole and wonder why I get stuck. So dear reader (or mom), I come to you rejected. But also relieved that the narrative did not play out, and that I can now head to Amazon.com and purchase a Gopro because I have an idea which is filling me with giddy anticipation. More on that soon!
 

Here I go again...

I know, Whitesnake. 

It is finally summer break. The hardest teaching year so far is behind me and I have saved up enough money to make it through the summer without working. I need this break to rest, to stay home, and to work on creating new curriculum for next year. I am setting a goal for myself to take at least an hour a day to write, be it in my journal, right here in the blog, or on my creative nonfiction piece that one day will become a book. But for now I need to carve out this time in my day and focus on the practice of creating. If one were to scroll through previous blog posts one might see that I have set this goal before. I have it in my habit tracker, and each night I go to sleep without checking off the box next to "journal." Even though I could merely write a few sentences to be able to check off the box, I still manage to ignore the deep need to write. Why?

"I don't know where I'm going, / but I sure know where I've been / hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday, / an' I've made up my mind. I ain't wasting no more time"  (David Coverdale / Bernie Marsden).

Can one be an expert at wasting time? I may just be the poster child for the art of deflection and procrastination. I have put parental controls on Facebook for just this reason. But I know that once I create a routine around a certain habit I am good to go. Each and every morning I wake up, feed all of the critters with whom I reside, meditate, stretch, run, stretch, and head out the door to work. Every Sunday I create meals for the upcoming week. Before bed I meditate again. So it is not really a stretch to add five minutes of journaling into my day. But I don't. Because it feels good. Because the act of writing soothes my soul, calms me down, fills me with hope, and connects me to something much grander than my mind can fathom. It's just too good for me and so I do not do it. But, here I go again. 

Whitesnake sings, "Like a drifter I was born to walk alone." Writing is a solitary practice, yes, but the process of sharing one's writing brings the act from a solitary experience to a communal one. I do not know who reads this, if anyone, but as I sit here with an imaginary audience I am connected. And that is where the fulfillment comes into play. I connect to the solitary experiences of others within this act of allowing words to appear on the screen. I am part of a larger community of writers, of readers, and of seekers. I feel that I am not alone. And maybe that is why I struggle to sit here and write. There is something familiar about being stuck. It is safe here by myself. Nobody can criticize me. Just for today I am going to step into the community because "I ain't wasting no more time." So here we are and here I go again. Hopefully I will be at the blank screen again tomorrow.