May 2013

Today: Snowy with periods of snow mixed with snow tapering to snow later today.

1-800-273-8255

Tempers were raised and disharmony resulted.

The day opened as it usually does around here, expectations no different than the day before, or the day before that. Same ol’ same ol’, copy-paste. However, no sooner had the day begun to unfurl — ablutions performed, lattes prepared, lips converged and parted again with a wave good-bye: “Have a nice day at work, Honey” — when I sensed a palpable disquiet in the air. One I could not put my finger on. And then just as suddenly as it came it was gone. Hmm, I thought, maybe a false positive.

I forgot about it and set about my usual AM routine. I checked the morning e-mail, assessed the notifications on my phone, e-replied to certain matters which needed my attention, traversed the web along my usual route, prepared and enjoyed a second espresso. I was well into an analytical task related to work when the dogs began to stir, a bit sooner than usual I thought, and this should have confirmed my earlier suspicion of an ephemeral disquietude. Being preoccupied with my task it didn’t. It was five or ten minutes to 10:00; usually the dogs don’t pester me until 10:30 or later.

Okay, okay, we’ll go for our walk now. As we got ready to go it seemed to me they were much more snipey toward each other than usual.

It was a gloriously bright day on the bluff overlooking Cook Inlet and beyond, a great place to walk in peace (usually), or hunt should you have the ego of a national emblem:

BIGGER.

But it wasn’t a usual day. I sensed that unsettledness again, the same kind I’d felt earlier, and scolded the dogs to stop sparring so close to the bluff edge — One of you is going to fall down that hill! You might think I should know better than to think they understand me, but you’d be surprised how sensitive a mature dog can be to certain tones of voice. They stopped and came to me expecting a treat. I caved and gave them each one. Hippie parent that I am.

We rounded the final turn on the bluff and walked up and over the south face of the sand dune, by this time of year entirely snow free. We took the short route back to the car as I was anxious to get home to get some work done. Into the car we all went, the dogs into the back seat as usual, but sort of like when you were a kid and your sister was “in your space” in the back seat of the car and you shouted, “Mom, she’s touching me! She’s touching me!”, well, Harry was so growling at Lucy. I scolded him to be quiet, and when he did, caved and gave them both another treat. It would not be the end of doggie discord for the day.

Back at home there was an unusual disembarkation inside the garage, wiping of muddy paws and the removal of Harry’s harness, yes, but also more sniping and sparring — What is up with these two today? Once inside the house I made Lucy her usual breakfast — ground beef, brown rice and pinto beans — fed her outside, and then hand-fed Harry his kibble and ground beef, per Happy Wife’s suggestion that it’s best to do it this way to prevent him from eating like a maniac. It sort of works.

With that done I’m finally back at my work, concentrating, when the dogs start pestering me again. What now?! Outside? Fine. Let’s go. Out they go and I think what the hell I’ll give them each a rawhide bone to keep them quiet for a while. This usually works. I’m not back in the house thirty seconds when I hear this eruption on the back deck. One, or two dogs, I couldn’t tell as I sprinted to the back door, screeching and wailing. I get to the door and look out and all I see is Lucy with a ton of whoop-ass on top of Harry trying to rip him a new one. What the hell?!

I get out there quick and pull her off him, inspect them both and assure myself neither dog was hurt. I see one of the rawhide bones on the deck. Uh huh, I see, so Harry couldn’t find his bone for some reason and thought he might enjoy Lucy’s.

You know, on any usual day Lucy would allow this, do nothing, the fabric of the day’s harmony would continue unbroken.

But for reasons I don’t understand, even though I might have known had I trusted my earlier premonitions, it was not a usual day.

Received the latest rejection to publish a short fiction story I’ve been shopping around to literary journals. The rejection was printed on a small 4×5 card and, curiously, returned with it in the SASE I had provided was the first page of my manuscript?

There were no emoticons — I half expected to see a little yellow sad face.

The card was addressed: Dear Prospective Contributor…

And continued: Your manuscript has been read and evaluated by the appropriate editor.

I should’ve stopped reading right there! I mean, spectacular, right? One copy of my story was read by one human being, what more could a newbie writer ask for. But I didn’t stop, like a glutton for punishment I continued reading. It was all downhill.

We regret to inform you... Ugh, there it was, the big letdown, something to do with the lack of suitability of my work for publication in this journal.

The blow to the ego was softened by the following: Since manuscripts are declined for a great many reasons, this rejection is in no way intended as a declaration of the relative merits of your work.

Now, certainly one generous interpretation of this last may be: In the grand distribution of the merits of all stories ever written, your story, Dear Prospective Contributor, was in fact brilliant, meaning the real loser here is us, our journal and its reputation, because owing to the limited scope of the material we choose to publish your genius will go unrecognized by our readership.

Indeed, this the interpretation I prefer.

As a further consolation to myself it’s worth noting that I’m swinging pretty hard in terms of where I shop this story, and I’m really not terribly surprised, as no newbie writer should be, that I’ve received multiple rejections. John Grisham’s first novel, which became the best selling novel of 1991, had been rejected by 28 publishers. So there. I’ve know all along, of course, that the probability of having this story accepted by any one of the publications I’ve submitted to thus far was roughly equivalent to the probability of me getting drafted as a walk-on to the Green Bay Packers. Still, nothing ventured nothing gained.

I will keep swinging.

Readers here who would like to read the story and provide me feedback should click the Contact link and let me know.