I sit. Stretch finger muscles. Adjust tri-focal glasses and scratch my shoulder. The monitor is a tease seeking my latest muse, computer humming, waiting for a new slant on life's messages. A pile of work, prepared manuscripts, rejected works and those in an evolving stage surround me.
Some stories and poems are persistent, as they twang in the mind, seeking attention. They're more like mosquitoes taking on new shapes each time they're thought of. They snatch at you like a family of Chick-a-Dees, their usual antics anticipating frequent revised descriptions.
To whom will you submit these gems this time? Will it be another "Not taking on new clients" type of publisher repeatedly advertising in a writer's magazine? Or the editor who said "Send me your full manuscript." Then six months later in response to a query, "Didn't you get our E-mail stating we are no longer interested? Sorry."
But, a true writer does not give up. The challenge of getting published remains.
And barbs or sarcasm do not diminish me. "You call this a poem?" I rise above that type of critiquing. "Have you tried taking a writing course?" My feathers are those of an eagle, shuffling, eager for day's launch.
I am prepared to rise above their shortsightedness. I am a writer. I am me.
Ha, an unopened letter. It missed my attention yesterday after the heat wave lulled me into sleepy mode. "You have a nice way of expressing yourself" is an unexpected thermal that greets my expanding smile. "Yes, we do wish to receive your full manuscript. Send it soon."
I switch into gasping mode. Triumphant is my song. My eagle wings stretch fully. A shrieking emits from my mouth. And a fresh load of paper hastily greets my printer, the new child is about to be release. Busy fingers fly across the computer keys. "I am happy to respond to your request for my full manuscript."
Yes, I am a joyous bundle of anticipation.
* * *
Richard L. Provencher 2008
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