Postcards of Grief

Mourning is a process.

Comments on breast cancer by proxy, written by a woman coping with the loss of her mother.

Sunday, October 03, 2004


I may have sold my first piece of writing. It's not set in stone, and I'm not confident how much I'd be paid for it if it were, but the creative director/designer told me that she likes it and is interested in using it. I'm floored.

This is the first piece I've ever submitted for such a thing, and in the days after her reply, I was undeniably giddy. At a loss for anything to do with my mind relative to this submission, I reread the piece, and now I hate it. I can't stand it. It's the biggest piece of drivel that's ever been set before me. It's choppy and disjointed. It sounds like the narrative of an eight year old, and that's not the voice I was going for. It's not even a voice that works for it. The piece isn't even interesting. I'm at a loss for what to do with it. I didn't and won't try to recall the submission. It's not necessary. If they like it and they want to publish it, then they can. Especially since they may even want to pay me, I'll let them keep it. I'm sure everyone I know will be kind enough to praise it gently, bless them.

I've been told this hating of one's submitted writing is perfectly normal, that everyone does it. I'm willing to accept that. I'm just not willing to accept that it makes that piece not horrible, that it's really a decent bit of writing. It's probably for the best that my opinion doesn't actually matter.


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