Buoyed and Sunk

Oh, Alaska Quarterly. How you've done me wrong.

What did Emily D. write? Hope is the thing with wings that pecks you in the eyeballs?

See, the thing is, journals can't do you wrong because they have no idea who you are. They don't know your name or your favorite vegetable or whether you yelled at your kids this morning or practiced deep breathing and acted mature. They don't care at all, and that's the nature of their journalness--like snakes or birds, you can't catch a glint of interest in their eyeballs; they may just slither or fly away, like they never saw you at all, or they might charge at you and bite you. You never know what they'll do.

The thing about hope--the words I say over seeds as I tamp soil over them, or the small secret thrill I feel as I print my name on an SASE and slip it into an envelope addressed to this or that journal--the thing about hope is that it can make you a fool. It can make you feel silly for wishing when you get just one more slip back printed with the dreaded words: Thank you for sending us. . .While we were. . .Good luck placing your. . .You know it as soon as you see your name, in your own handwriting, on a slim, weightless envelope. You know you're done for, man. You've raised your hand to wave happily at somebody in a crowd and it turns out they were waving to the guy with the handlebar mustache behind you.

You know you're just going to have to gird up your loins and send the manuscript off again, again, again, ceaselessly until somebody shocks you with recognition.

Since September, I've had a poem, a short story, an essay, and a children's story accepted in four different publications. I wish I drank beer in celebration every night, but instead I scan the pieces I have out, hoping, hoping. . .for what? Another nod from a journal? A sign that my career will not fizzle in total obscurity? And would that be so bad, as long as I've done my best and, most importantly, shaped and loved the people who have crossed my doorstep? Of course it wouldn't--I know that. I've got my values straight.

And it's only for the first ensuing moments or even hours after yet another rejection that I stick out my lower lip and pout. Then I shift gears, whip myself into shape, climb on another boat. And try not to wish too much.