So after a hiatus, I’m back. To be honest, I went from having too little time on my hands during the school year, to having too much. My goal was to use the time to begin the novel, read a bunch of literary magazines, send out stories, and read some Russians.
I don’t do well with lots of time, and I’m gladly returning to work next week. But I’ve made a decent dent in the novel, and sent out my first batch of submissions last night. I’ve read that it takes an average of 20 rejections before a magazine accepts a piece, so I’m reminding myself to persevere. Of course, in my rush to finish things before work begins, I forgot to stamp my self-addressed envelopes. Many of these magazines state that they’ll outright reject manuscripts without them. So I panicked, called the man at the post office depot at midnight. The store had just closed. It’s okay, he said. No problem. Come now.
So I’m running across the street, braless in Hillcrest. He opened the envelopes, I stamped the ones nestled inside with my mss., and he taped them up again. We were an assembly line. He said next time I come after midnight I have to bring him tequila. I love this man.
He reminds me of the proprietor of my favorite Middle Eastern deli in San Jose. Kindness and playfulness behind his gruff demeanor, single-handedly running a business. He works endlessly. I used to give him the vegetables in my garden, and he would share his recipes with me. I always felt humbled by his work ethic, warmed by his honesty. The last time I saw him, his father had died that morning. He was oceans and continents away, tied to his business, and couldn’t return for the funeral. He hugged me, anyway, told me to come back.
And here’s this man in San Diego, telling me, Sleep is for losers. Hearty laugh. I like to work, he says. But not for other people. Just for myself, I work.
So the stories were sent. Anna Karenina’s next on the book queue. Then Fathers and Sons.
