Report from Pillville: the vascular surgeon, the pulmonologist, the cardiologist, the endodontist

Chill. It's pretty much good news.

 I might have busted out a bottle of champagne tonight after the crown fell off of my mom's tooth that has the root canal in progress. No pain is always a reason for celebration, right? I did call the dentist (the regular dentist and not the endodontist) and explain to him that we'd just finished dinner --which meant that I'd polished off two glasses of wine and  could not drive the 20 miles to the endodontist--even if he would see us. No worries, the regular dentist said. She's not in pain because the nerve on the root canal tooth is out of commission so, call us at 8:00 a.m. and we'll work her in tomorrow and cement the crown back on.

Earlier today we had a post-carotid artery, post-echocardiogram follow-up with the cardiologist. Yes, there's a slight amount of plaque in the carotid. Yes, there's a bit of leakage in two heart valves. Blood pressure and heart rate are fab. All over condition is summed up as stable. Hooray for not smoking.

At some point this week (geez, is it only Wednesday?) we also had a follow-up with the vascular surgeon. He's happy with the outcome of the procedure my mom had on Nov. 1. Her feet and legs look better and feel better. She's walking better. The ultrasound shows increased circulation.  Hooray for not smoking.

I have no fucking idea when, exactly, but sometime very recently we also went to the pulmonologist--who, himself, is 80 years old. A charming man. The office is housed in a quirky cottage with office staff so nice that I feel like I should show up with donuts or a fruit basket or a tray of Starbucks peppermint mochas with extra whipped cream. Her lungs sound fine. Better even. Hooray for not smoking.

Cardiologist and pulmonologist follow-ups are in four months. We don't see the vascular surgeon until June. Holy shit. I'm going to have to start writing again. I mean like really writing and sending work out because now I'm actually going to have time to read those rejection letters. I've decided that henceforth all of my mom's appointments are going to be scheduled for Mondays and Wednesdays. Preferably these will also be the days when teeth fall out, and hearing aids get lost, and we run out of gin. Because I'm going to try to remember how to write--and I'll need Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays to figure that shit out.

photo credit: Sam Kunz

I didn't die, but maybe I'm delusional (see previous post)

I didn't die from eating the inedible gill of a rock crab (see previous post,) and while I am completely annoyed with the pending real estate transaction in which I may or may not sell my house, I did find a trillion dollars lying on the grass outside my condo complex today. HOORAY!

And while the IRS still hasn't let me off the hook for a teeny weeny misunderstanding, which I was sorely reminded of this afternoon when I paid my quarterly taxes, I was not carried off by pelicans during my five-mile walk on the beach the evening before last.

And while I may soon begin to introduce myself at parties as a failed writer, I have for some inexplicable reason been invited with a nice personal note to resubmit to the literary journal that I regarded as the creme de la creme on the list of journals that comprised my last batch of multiple submissions (all but two of a dozen have sent rejections, and one journal actually rejected the same piece twice.)

And while I am currently shuttling between  two half-furnished houses where I never seem to have what I want or need, I am fully aware that this is a problem of the 1%.

And while manufactures of nice lingerie, do not seem to understand that a woman my age might actually want to buy and wear such undergarments, I have succeeded in finding a couple of matching ensembles which have underwear that conceal about 80% of my stretch marks, though the enthusiasm regarding that success was mitigated by reading recently in a New Yorker short story a description of an unattractive older woman who wore "lurid lingerie."

And while I am tired and unusually cranky this evening, I am counting my blessings.
Margaritaville is a much better locale than Divorceville.

Writers, What do you do with your rejection notices?

Last night was the final class of "Submitting to Los Angeles Literary Magazines," a course I took through the UCLA Writer's Program. The teacher was Michelle Meyering, editor of The Rattling Wall, a journal that published an essay of mine last spring. I'd prefer various forms of torture to driving across the pot-holed, broken-streetlight wasteland that the City of Angels has become. I'd prefer being harangued by phone solicitors to paying UCLA's exorbitant $11.00 parking fees (unless you want the close-by parking--that's $18.00.) But, in an effort to organize the practicalities of my writing life, I endured the 90-minute drive and blew $111.00 in addition to the tuition. I'm glad I did.

Until I learned of Michelle's seasonal submission plan, I'd been trolling the usual submission calendars and email subscriptions to find places to submit my work. I read the lists. I made notes. I tried to figure out what to submit where. Tweaked it. Reduced the word count--or not. Tried to make this deadline with one piece, and that one with another, and that one. And seldom did.

It turns out that many literary magazines have similar seasonal submission deadlines, and Michelle scheduled her class to coincide with the April 1st deadline that is on the early end of the spectrum for spring. So last night, after 9 weeks of studying guidelines, interviewing local lit mag editors, working on log lines, short bios, cover letters, and polishing a single submission, we all showed up with stamps and envelopes. This morning Michelle took our work to the post office and mailed it. My essay is now chugging its way to 15 different literary magazines from across the country. This means rejection, of course. And maybe there'll be an acceptance in the somewhere, too. But what I'm happiest about is that I honed in on one piece and sent it out.

I'm done now. I'm going to read. And read. And read. When I'm ready, I'm going to write. Come fall, if I haven't been rendered completely insane by moving and getting my mother across the county and getting us both settled in my new house, I'll polish another piece and send it out.

To everything
there is a season
And a time to every purpose
Under heaven.


Writers, what do you do with your rejections? Keep them? Flush them? Light them on fire?

Take this sinking boat and point it home

"Good, speak to th' mariners! Fall to't yarely, or we run ourselves aground. Bestir, bestir!"
From Shakespeare's "The Tempest."

A couple of boats have recently run aground here in Margaritaville.

H.M.S. 2nd MFA:  Four applications. Four rejections.

H.M.S. Book Deal:  After the improbably long (almost a year) journey up the food chain, my manuscript was rejected on the final read.

Thoughts from the rusting deck: "...it was possible to be good at what you had little interest in, just as it had been possible to be bad at something, whether painting or poetry, that you cared a great deal about."
From the novel "Empire Falls" by Richard Russo.


Post title from the song "Falling Slowly."

A Drink in the Land of the Parched.

Rejection has been the lay of the land lately. Not personally, but in my writing life. "Thank you very much...but no." Which is kind of personal. Mostly my way of dealing with this is to go wholeheartedly into the disappointment and then forget about it as best I can. So I was really thrilled when I got a "We are very pleased to let you know...." email the other morning. I have a short piece that's been accepted to the Mom Egg literary journal & it will be coming out in May. I wrote this piece in May of 2009 while I was taking a writing/hiking trip in Greece. I'm going on that trip with AstraGreece again this spring. This year we will go to the island of Naxos. There are words taking shape inside me right now that will emerge there. I can't wait to meet them.  http://writersconf.org/memdir/members/I00020.php
I believe there are still one or two spaces available.