A year ago. Or was it two. No last year. I rewrote Polishing the Bones. That’s it, I told myself. I’m done. I’m not rewriting it anymore.

And I started sending it out. Again. And it kept getting rejected. Again.

One agent actually wrote that she didn’t care for my style.

What the hell?

But that made me stop and think. Consider what that meant. What is wrong with my style?

Then life stopped. Not because of the rejections. Just other things.

I’ve spent the last year thinking about Polishing the Bones. I’ve also spent a lot of time trying to finish writing Homeleaving which I was planning on finishing two days ago. Or two months ago. Or, rather six months ago. That’s okay. I’m in the last full chapter. And then there’s going to be an epilogue of sorts. But I’m close to done.

And the only reason I haven’t finished it is because I have been allowing myself to live. Like going to a movie with my husband, one of his brothers, his brother’s son, and my daughter. And after the movie, we toured a B-17 Flying Fortress. And I was given special permission to sit in the bombadier’s seat because my father was a bombadier. And I cried.

And I didn’t finish writing it today because today I spent some hours planning with a colleague. Or chatting with my husband. Or re-reading Chapters 1 and 2 of The Bear Box Diner and Polishing the Bones respectively. And then I re-wrote what is now Chapter 1 of Polishing the Bones, finally following all of the advice I have been given over the years to start with Chapter 2 but I refused because I thought my editors and readers were wrong but, I can tell, they were right and I was wrong.

I have a chapter I really do think that I can sell. I have a chapter to a book I know that I can sell because I have been reading William Zissner’s book Writing Well and other books about writing poetry and I have learned so much and finally see the mistakes that I have been making. I have been trying too hard. Trying too hard to write beautifully and let all the pretty words and pretty metaphors live when they kind of cluttered things up. So I’m simplifying. And listening. And damn if they weren’t right.

I’m still expecting rejections. I don’t have enough publishing credits. And I need to fix that and I can. By just editing my poetry. Which I’m doing. Ish…becuase I think that I’m getting more and more intimidated by rejection. I would like some yes’s please. I know that’s rather duh-ish. No one sends out something that makes them vulnerable and hopes that they’ll get a big fat No.

I wanted to write this summer. It’s only been about ten days. But in those ten days, I have written. And in the next sixty, I am going to write more. And more. I’m going to re-write two books. And I’m going to finish the third. Maybe tomorrow. That’s my goal. If not…Wednesday? Thurdsay? Definitely by Friday.

And by that point, I’ll have read and edited and rewritten another three chapters of Polishing. And finally edited a poem. Or two.