To say I’ve been in a dry spell when it comes to publishing is an under statement.
I haven’t received an acceptance from anywhere since March of 2023 — 11 months.
Seeing it typed out in black and white and thinking about how long of a stretch that is makes me quite sad. I feel quite defeated. Especially because I thought that I had a really cool opportunity with that publication.
I Bought was published by local university RMU’s Rune Magazine, and all contributors were invited to a reading of the issue on campus that April.
Excitedly, I accepted their invitation. I pictured myself zipping through downtown Pittsburgh, vaguely familiar enough with the outskirts of the campus to not be anxious about traffic or parking or getting lost. I planned out my outfit — something between artsy and serious — and pictured myself getting chatty and cozy with esteemed writers, students, and professors, finally making that serendipitous connection that would elevate my writing career. I even convinced my husband to take a half day of work that Thursday so we could attend together. We were both so excited that we took the following Friday off too so we could have an “us” day.
Then I realized that the reading was taking place at the university’s other campus — the one north of Pittsburgh. And with this city’s traffic, the commute would probably be two hours.
Still, J and I resolved to go. We’d attended RMU’s hockey games at their sports facility in the past so we had a general idea of where we were going. We could even grab a celebratory dinner on the way.
As we were climbing into J’s Ford Escape (slightly later than I planned on leaving), I pulled up the address on my phone. And realized that the part of the campus hosting the reading was even further than the university’s sports complex we were familiar with.
J still had to stop for gas, and with rush hour traffic quickly approaching, we’d be cutting it close.
I was already anxious about the prospect of reading my piece out loud to a roomful of academic strangers, but my panic grew as J fought traffic and became increasingly agitated at the string of red lights, clusters of bad drivers, and constant construction marring our route to RMU.
Half an hour into our trip, J had dropped more F bombs than I could count and I was near tears. We were never going to make it on time and I felt my opportunity to make connections in the Pittsburgh writing community slipping away. It didn’t help that J and I were on edge and that we were both absolutely starving. At this rate, there would be no detour for dinner.
I begged J to turn around at the next exit. I was so stressed that I didn’t even want to go to the stupid reading anymore. But he was hell bent on getting us there. I felt incredibly guilty for making him drive all this way for my dumb little writing event.
By some miracle, we pulled into the RMU parking lot roughly ninety seconds before the reading began.. My stomach was growling, my eyeliner was smudged with barely-shed tears, and I was shaking with nerves and stress.
When we entered the room, it was packed with roughly 50 people — and every single chair was taken. The hosts were already gathering at the podium up front and students were whisking away empty trays sprinkled with discarded toothpicks, scraggly pieces of parsley, and cracker crumbs. My stomach growled desperately.
Three or four young women in the center of the room were gathered around a small basket, tossing folded papers inside. They called out to all contributing writers, asking us to check in and place our names in the basket for a chance to read our piece out loud.
“Welcome,” the cheerful, bright-eyed twenty-year-old said, handing me an issue of the journal. “Would you like a chance to read tonight?” She held up pen and paper encouragingly.
Suddenly I felt like I was a thousand years old. Whatever iota of confidence might have been left deep inside my soul crumbled. “No,” I managed, shame-faced. I wanted nothing more than to walk out of that room and bury myself under the mulch in the tree planter.
“You’re not going to read?!” J whisper-shrieked as I turned around. “Why did we drive all the way up here if you weren’t going to read?”
I bolted to the only empty table in the room — a high top wedged between a vending machine and the wall. Hide in the corner. Fitting.
I didn’t have to look at J to know he was seething. Guilt and embarrassment engulfed me completely. I did not belong here. Far too old to identify with the college students, far too young and uneducated to have anything in common with the professors.
The evening’s host — a junior who had already accomplished more in her writing career than I probably ever would — welcomed everyone and formally began the reading. Contributors were called at random if their names were pulled from the basket, and I pretended to read along in my spiral-bound copy, but I could barely hear them over the humming of the vending machine next to our table.
The hour passed slowly, painfully, my shame and disappointment morphing from anger to frustration to embarrassment to the despair of utter failure.
A comedy of errors had started this night on shaky ground, and I was so anxious and out of place I didn’t have the strength to fake enthusiasm or confidence. Sadly, I let the hour pass us by and bolted as soon as the last writer finished reading their piece.
So much for opportunity.
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