Submission Sundays or What Jealousy Taught Me

So this post is "authorly" in nature, in that I am an author and I'm going to talk about writing, but it's also a post for people in general. I want to talk about something we all are either recipients of or are guilty of. What's that, you ask? JEALOUSY. I'm no stranger to the green eyed monster and I bet you aren't either.

Recently, I was made aware that some people didn't like me. WHAT?! Was my first response. And by "what" I meant "what is wrong with those people?" Because I'm always taken aback when I find out people don't like me. Unless it's someone I don't like and I've given them good reason not to like me, that's a different story. But coming from people I mostly like and hadn't done anything to, it was a shock. Then, the more we talked about it, we came to the realization that it wasn't so much dislike (well, it still might be, but not for these reasons) as jealousy. People were jealous of me. Now, I'm sure that what you're supposed to feel, what most people feel, when they find out someone is jealous of them is pride. I'm so good that people are jealous. Right? But that's not what I felt. I felt angry. Angry because it felt like their jealousy undermined my hard work. No good fortune fairy came down and tapped Mike & I on the head. Everything we have, his job, my job, a nice house, great kids, great relationships with those kids, the trips we take, everything, we worked our asses off for or went through hell for. And it felt like these people were saying we didn't deserve them, we just got lucky. And I call bullshit.

But the truth is, you never truly know anything about anyone else's life unless you live it. Those people couldn't know that I'm constantly stressed about whether my oldest son, who has autism, is happy at his group home. Is he being treated fairly, does he like the people who work there, does he miss me too much? They couldn't know how stressed I am about my youngest leaving home and how he'll never be the same person again. I will never know him as well as I do at this exact moment, because leaving home changes you. They couldn't know that I still miss my Grandma on a daily basis and how much I miss being able to share every success with the person who believed in me the most. They can't know how much my sister and I worry about our parents increasing age and declining health. Or the daily frustration of living with someone who has no short term memory. Or any of the million other things that everyone deals with on a daily basis. They didn't really know me. All they saw is what we present to the outside world. And as much as I try to be genuine and an open book in all of my interpersonal communications, I don't often share bad stuff. Mostly because I figure everyone has their own, why bring them down with mine. And truly, most of the time I choose not to dwell on mine; Mike and I adopted a policy very early on, right after CJ's diagnosis in fact, of "well, this happened, let's deal with it and move on." So I am a happy person most of the time. But it's by choice, not luck.

And because of this episode I started thinking about my own petty jealousies. Most of them work related. Such and such press signed author X. Why didn't they sub to us? So and so sold yet another story for pro rates. Why didn't I? Why aren't I having all these acceptances? So I took my own ponderings to heart and realized I have no idea what is going on in other's lives. They got those things because they worked hard for them. And if I want them? Well, I better get my ass in gear and start working harder.

A wise woman once told me  I can't measure my success by the success of others because success is personal. There's no one definition that applies across the board. And what I realized was the reason I wasn't having success was because I wasn't putting in the time and effort. If I want author X then I need to do something to put the press on their radar. And if I want an acceptance letter with a pro rate sale, well I'd better start finishing my stories/novellas/novels and submitting them. Because the truth is I bust my ass for the press, but I'm a lazy writer. I let myself get distracted, I procrastinate, I find 15 other things I "should" be doing. And that's my bad. I know what I need to do. And so, I started last week. Last weekend I sent in three submissions. I already had two out, so that's five. Four original stories and one reprint. So far, I've heard nothing back. Two I think have a real chance. The other three are a gamble. But if they come back with a rejection notice, I will research some more markets and get them out again, because that's what it takes. And from now on, I will finish one new story per month and send it out too, until I have so many subs out that the law of averages takes effect. Something has to sell, right? I mean, I have sold stories before.

So the moral of this story is I took something unpleasant and turned it around by choice. And every time you do that, the Universe smiles for like 3.5 seconds. I mean, c'mon, it's a busy Universe and you really aren't that important. But maybe it helps to bolster hope for the human race. And for you writerly types who are still with me? The lesson is: success comes with backbreaking (or mind bending in this case) labor. Not good luck, not fairies or wishing wells, but your own sweat and tears. You have to put the work in to reap the rewards. And will we all make it? No. I mean some people just aren't ready, or talented enough, or even interesting. But no one is going to make it if they don't try, if they don't keep trying. And the more you write, the more you read other's writing, the more you work on your craft, the better you get. And the better you get, the better your chances of acceptance. It's a circle of win.

So I'm starting "Submission Sundays." Every Sunday I will evaluate my submissions. The ones sent back rejected, will be looked at, tweaked, and sent somewhere else. New stories will get the same treatment. I want to have at least five and possibly ten subs out at all times. This Sunday, I have a "pass" since they are all still out and I didn't get anything new written or finished this week. But I'm looking for some of you writers out there to join me. I might even make a Facebook group. Because I do better when held accountable to others. And so do some of you. And some of you are good all on your own, but might enjoy kicking other's in the pants. C'mon, it'll be fun.

And stop being jealous. Shake it off, look around, and appreciate your own blessings. You might not want the other person's bad times or dues they paid to get those good things.

♥Stacey

#FridayFlash-(my first)- The Lamp

The theme this week was "terrible taxidermy". As many writers will tell you, the best stories are grounded somewhat in reality. This story was inspired by an actual Baboon leg lamp that I saw on a program called Oddities. If you've never seen the show you should definitely check it out.


The Lamp

“What the hell is that?” Jane asked, a look of pure disgust marring her otherwise beautiful features.

“Yeah, dude. What the hell?” Greg added.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Luke asked. “This thing is awesome!”

 “No, Luke. That thing is vile. Now what the hell is it?” Jane scrambled around to stand behind the couch as Luke placed his latest find on the coffee table.

 “It’s a Baboon leg lamp.” He grinned from ear to ear.

 “Like, made from an actual Baboon leg?” Jane stared at him in horror.

 “Yes! Isn’t it amazing?”

“No.” Greg said. “It should be on some show, like taxidermy gone wild or terrible taxidermy. That thing is just too weird.”

“It’s giving me the willies, Luke. Take it back.” Jane demanded.

Luke stared at them. “You guys really don’t like it? You’re not just bullshitting me?”

“No. I really don’t like it.” Jane and Greg said in unison.

 “Fine. But the store’s closed now. I’ll have to take it back tomorrow.”

“It can’t stay here.” Jane was staring at it, revulsion etched on her face. “Seriously, I don’t want to look at it.”

“I’ll keep it in my room.”

“That’s fine. Just don’t expect me to stay in your room tonight.” Jane headed down the hall to her room.

 Luke looked at Greg, who was still staring at the lamp, his Xbox game completely forgotten.

“Not sure what you were thinking there, bro. This one’s strange even for you.”

Luke had the reputation of being a little odd. Usually Jane didn’t mind the weird stuff he brought home. He couldn’t understand why she was so repulsed by the lamp. When he’d seen it as his favorite shop, Eccentricities, he couldn’t resist it. He didn’t usually go in for dead animal art, but this lamp had spoken to him. He put the lamp in his room and went back into the kitchen. Jane had already started making dinner and he slipped his arms around her from behind.

“I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t know it would upset you so much. I’ll take it back first thing tomorrow.”

Jane turned in his arms and snuggled against him. “Thank you.”

 “Any idea why it freaks you out so bad?”

Jane looked up at him. “You’re probably going to think this is silly, but do you remember that story- The Monkey’s Paw? It reminds me of that. A dead shriveled monkey’s paw.”

 Luke chuckled. “It’s not shriveled. Whoever did the taxidermy didn’t do a bad job.”

Jane pulled away. “Whatever. Just get rid of it. And for the love of Bob, don’t make any wishes on it.”

That night he pulled out the lamp. Jane had made him put it in the closet because it was freaking her out so badly. Luke studied it. Really, the taxidermy was well done. The leg looked alive, as if it had just walked right off the baboon. For a brief moment he wondered how one went about getting a severed baboon leg. He thought about how Jane had compared it to the monkey paw in that story. Honestly, he only vaguely remembered the story anyway. She was the English major, he was the Zoologist. He chuckled about her admonition about wishing on it. But, what the hell, it was worth a shot, right?

He held the lamp, closed his eyes and wished for the one thing he wanted that he hadn’t gotten so far. He wished to see Africa. He’d been in love with Africa since he could remember. He gobbled up nature programs and documentaries about the continent. He’d studied the animals and culture. Someday, he was going to visit there. He set the lamp back inside the closet. Then he went to Jane’s room and crawled in beside her.

“It’s in the closet?” she asked.

“Yes, Jane. The lamp can’t get you.”

“It’s not funny, you jerk! There’s something wrong with that lamp.” She turned over and faced away from him. He lay there on his back until he drifted off.

The next thing he knew he was racing across the African plains in pursuit of a small wounded antelope. He could smell the earth, the blood, the heat. His veins were throbbing with the blood coursing through him and his mind was full of the thrill of the hunt. He realized he was loping more than running. An odd two legged lope, using the knuckles of his hands to help propel him forward. He looked sideways and saw that he was part of a troop of baboons. Then his mind went back to the hunt.

As they drew in on their prey, his excitement mounted, as did that of the rest of his troop. The antelope fell and they sprang onto it, ripping it with their teeth, tearing at it with claws. Then, danger. Another troop of baboons was approaching. Luke stood up and raced towards them. He and their leader circled one another, yawning widely to show off their sharp teeth. He flicked his eyelids at the other baboon, aggressively. But the other didn’t back down. He flew at him with a shriek of rage and there were more teeth and claws, ripping, tearing. He was soaked in the blood of his challenger. He was victorious!

Luke awoke abruptly. The first thing he realized was that he was on the floor. The second was that he felt wet and sticky. His heart pounding in his chest, he stood and flicked on the light. Jane’s room was soaked in blood and so was Luke. Jane’s body lay in the center of the bed, ripped open and lifeless. Greg’s body lay beside the bed, also lifeless. Both looked like they’d been attacked by a wild animal. Luke moaned and slid down the wall, putting his head in his hands. He shook with horror, unable to believe the scene before him. Suddenly he remembered the moral of The Monkey’s Paw. Be careful what you wish for. His screams rent the night.

Hope you enjoyed it. And remember- be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.
Stacey