What Would Sylvia Say?
So I finally published a book. I've been talking about it for years, and sending my work away to contests and agencies and publications to get it out into the wider world. I mean all kinds of work: fiction, poetry, prose, short memoir, long memoir, weird little clips that look like Mary Oliver, Billy Collins and Sylvia Plath had a threesome and nothing good came of it.
Sometimes I won. Sometimes I even won money. And got published in whatever magazine, print journal, online journal or book I'd sent away to, which enables me to place "award-winning writer" in front of my name. Mostly I lost. I even got rejected by agents whom I'd met at a conference where my thick, weighty memoir manuscript had won top billing. That "award-winning writer" thing, then, starts to feel like dust in my mouth.
But at least I'm in good company. All three of the poets named above got rejected numerous times before "making it" to publication. And getting published doesn't mean you're successful, rich, famous or happy. I think Sylvia would agree.
My biggest dream is getting the memoir (yes, the one the agents rejected) published, and gaining the New York Times bestseller list. That's what I want to do with my life: get published by a traditional house and be recognized as A Great Writer. But odds are it's probably not going to happen. And I thought, why wait around and twist my fingers in my hair while the manuscript is sitting in some other agent's inbox, when I have all this poetry overflowing my laptop, my journals, falling out of my desk? Why not pull it together into a collection?
So that's what I've done. And the results are linked here, where you can check it out at Amazon. And below is a poem I just wrote about not waiting to grab ahold of your dreams. You can read that one for free, right here on this blog. Because I love writing, and I do it nearly every day: write and grab my dreams. Life is too short not to. I think Sylvia would agree with that, too.
Song of Yourself
What are you going to do
With your one unrepeatable life?
Who else will hurl this light
Into the neverending sky
If not you?
To live truly you cannot
Hesitate.
Grab hold of the earth
And reach for the sun you cannot see.
Do not listen to those who tell you
It can’t be done
To the naysayers with tales of Icarus
Or Phaeton
Or their own fears of flying.
You belong to you. Your colors
Are your own.
Fly them into the ceaseless
Jaws of the wind and listen
To the song they make:
Your song, the song of yourself
Which only you can sing.
Sometimes I won. Sometimes I even won money. And got published in whatever magazine, print journal, online journal or book I'd sent away to, which enables me to place "award-winning writer" in front of my name. Mostly I lost. I even got rejected by agents whom I'd met at a conference where my thick, weighty memoir manuscript had won top billing. That "award-winning writer" thing, then, starts to feel like dust in my mouth.
But at least I'm in good company. All three of the poets named above got rejected numerous times before "making it" to publication. And getting published doesn't mean you're successful, rich, famous or happy. I think Sylvia would agree.
My biggest dream is getting the memoir (yes, the one the agents rejected) published, and gaining the New York Times bestseller list. That's what I want to do with my life: get published by a traditional house and be recognized as A Great Writer. But odds are it's probably not going to happen. And I thought, why wait around and twist my fingers in my hair while the manuscript is sitting in some other agent's inbox, when I have all this poetry overflowing my laptop, my journals, falling out of my desk? Why not pull it together into a collection?
So that's what I've done. And the results are linked here, where you can check it out at Amazon. And below is a poem I just wrote about not waiting to grab ahold of your dreams. You can read that one for free, right here on this blog. Because I love writing, and I do it nearly every day: write and grab my dreams. Life is too short not to. I think Sylvia would agree with that, too.
Song of Yourself
What are you going to do
With your one unrepeatable life?
Who else will hurl this light
Into the neverending sky
If not you?
To live truly you cannot
Hesitate.
Grab hold of the earth
And reach for the sun you cannot see.
Do not listen to those who tell you
It can’t be done
To the naysayers with tales of Icarus
Or Phaeton
Or their own fears of flying.
You belong to you. Your colors
Are your own.
Fly them into the ceaseless
Jaws of the wind and listen
To the song they make:
Your song, the song of yourself
Which only you can sing.
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