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What Helen Radice says? Applies to getting published, IMNSHO:
This week I finally picked up Floyd Skloot's The Night-Side: Seven Years in the Kingdom of the Sick -- which I've owned for seven-odd years, but hadn't been in the right mood to read it until now. An excellent antidote to this week's earlier bout of utterly irrational yet unmanageable bout of self-pity, it mentions Sontag's Illness As Metaphor more than once and features entertainingly insane paragraphs such as this one:
How the hell is it 2/3 through January already? I'd intended to devote most of this week to a copyediting project, but housework and poetry revisions/submissions munched up far more time than I'd intended to spare for them. Still, the chores needed to be done, and the dances-with-stamps part was part of getting my files (and priorities) organized for an upcoming workshop, so it's not like the hours were misspent. Next week, though, it's gonna be me and the manuscript and my Chicago-style comb. . .
Just because you are good enough to do a job, doesn't mean you will get it, ever. There might always be somebody better than you.
The world doesn't owe anyone a living: we make our own. Nobody owes me a job in a ballet company; I just have to keep trying (or give up; but as I say, I enjoy the work. ..
This week I finally picked up Floyd Skloot's The Night-Side: Seven Years in the Kingdom of the Sick -- which I've owned for seven-odd years, but hadn't been in the right mood to read it until now. An excellent antidote to this week's earlier bout of utterly irrational yet unmanageable bout of self-pity, it mentions Sontag's Illness As Metaphor more than once and features entertainingly insane paragraphs such as this one:
The day we had left Oregon for Germany, I had been sick for almost five years and married for five days. A disabled Brooklyn-born Jew living with my bride in her round house in the woods, I went to a tiny village in the Westerwald during a spring of violent German anti-foreigner activity in order to see an Indian avatar while on my honeymoon with the maid-of-honor along as chaperon.
How the hell is it 2/3 through January already? I'd intended to devote most of this week to a copyediting project, but housework and poetry revisions/submissions munched up far more time than I'd intended to spare for them. Still, the chores needed to be done, and the dances-with-stamps part was part of getting my files (and priorities) organized for an upcoming workshop, so it's not like the hours were misspent. Next week, though, it's gonna be me and the manuscript and my Chicago-style comb. . .
