Sounds like a Harlequin Romance Novel, doesn't it? It isn't....what it is - is stupidity. And I have no one to blame but myself, although I will blame fever as the primary instigator and boredom as a secondary factor.
It's been four days now and I still feel like bird-turd. Still coughing, still aching, still sniffling and sneezing and not sleeping. My head hurts, my chest hurts, even my toenails hurt. I whine when I speak, I can hear myself. Poor Dan's getting pretty disgusted with the whine, as well as with all the various snotty sounds - to say nothing of the fact that he's not only got to drive himself to work and back, he also has to keep reheating the same lasagna over and over again if he wants to eat. Me, I'm just sucking popsicles, drinking tea and losing weight. Not a bad thing, normally, but I don't weigh all that much to begin with, and the bit of soft stomach that I'd like to loose is stubbornly staying put.
Interesting as all this is to you......I'll quit now. In a sudden fit of "Look, Dan, I'm actually sitting up" pride, I decided this morning that I would take advantage of the enforced down time to cull some poetry and do some submitting. And what did I do???? I sent things to The New Yorker. Of ALL places!!! What the HELL was I thinking? Was I thinking? (The correct answer here is "Obviously not.") The New Yorker is not going to like my stuff. The New Yorker doesn't even like the stuff of anyone whose stuff I like. I write rhyme - they seldom publish rhyme. I write short things - they like long things. I don't use simile or metaphor or descriptions - they like simile and metaphor and descriptions. I have no "Name" - they tend to publish nothing but Name.
Why do I even want to GET into The New Yorker? (Same reason I want to get into Poetry Magazine or Atlantic Monthly -- I am a masochist)
If I really want/need the validation that I obviously somehow think comes with being published in one of "those" places, the real question should not be "Why?" The real question should be: "Well then, what can I do to make them seriously consider me?" "Write the kind of poetry that they like" would be the practical answer. But what if that would mean writing poetry that I don't like myself? Is that even possible to do? Having never had the benefit of schooling, I've never learned the discipline that comes with being forced to write something I didn't want to write.
The New Freakin Yorker!!!!! Have I lost my mind????? Last month I sent a few things off to Poetry for their special humor issue.....I thought that was bad enough, but I do it every year and I get rejected every year and I'm kind of used to it by now so I did it again anyhow. But The New Yorker?????
You do know what this means, don't you?
If the words "Computer Generated Rejection Letter" come to mind, you win!!! I don't have a prize to offer, but I can share my flu if you like.