Or Dew Eye?

When I got home from my MFA residency over the summer, I set to work on an essay about the death of my mother's best friend. It took ages to write the ten painful pages. My eyes practically bled. When it was finally ready, after mom-review and mentor-review, I sent it to a top magazine. At the end of October, I was told that they really loved the piece but wanted me to move some sections around. After more work, I got it all stitched together, smoothed at the seams.

You know this can't have a happy ending with a picture of my face with the word suck on it. I hate to spoil the surprise.

So here we are, four days into the new year, and I've got my first major rejection.

Just before the end of last year, I had a cake essay released from the consideration pile of a beautiful magazine. Same situation: the editor liked the piece but wanted some revisions. I felt foul for a few days.

A good friend told me that if I "believe it to be true [that I suck], then stop writing right now."

OK.




























All right, so I can't. We don't write because we think we're good. We write because we have a need. We write because we have a mental disorder. It's like checking the stove five times (which reminds me...) or touching your food to your chin. I have to write.

Sometimes my writing sucks. I'm not perfect. I can't make you feel it every time. I've scattered my seeds before I've tilled the ground. I've planted sour fruit. I've stunk up the place with rotten metaphors. (You're dying to pelt me with rotten tomatoes right now.)

But in all honestly, I don't think I suck. I think they suck. So fuck you, [magazine name here]*. You suck.






*If they pick me in the future, however, they will leave the realm of suckdom.