In the middle of a field, a garden bed rises…

That garden bed should be filled with tomato plants. And hot pepper plants. And garlic scapes. It’s not. It’s not even fully put together yet.

One of the things we left at the old house was a well-established garden with all my favorite things to grow. We were starting to get “volunteers” of various kinds, too, each adding delicious things to add to the summer table. Starting a new garden here is a lovely opportunity–more space, all sorts of gardening stores, a longer growing season, time and bandwidth… I spent the winter dreaming, visioning, purchasing seeds, and getting ready. Then spring rolled up on us fast. And that means all sorts of obligations. And now it’s June and… well, the garden isn’t growing. It’s building. We’re weeks away from putting anything in the ground, and they certainly won’t be any of the seeds I purchased months ago. I see it when I’m walking the dogs sometimes and I feel frustrated. I see it when I’m walking the dogs sometimes and I feel excited. I see it when I’m walking the dogs sometimes and I wonder why the hell it isn’t further along.

This week was full of rejections. One of them came one hour after I submitted a story I’m proud of. I literally spent 30 minutes getting the manuscript properly formatted and writing the cover letter and doing the things you’re supposed to do, pressed submit, hopped on a Zoom, and opened my rejection when the Zoom ended. They clearly didn’t read it. I don’t know what disqualified me and I don’t know why I bothered.

I love writing. When I look at calls for submissions or I see a favorite market open for their submissions period, I get excited. Sometimes, I get inspired by a call and I write something new, or I send out a story that hasn’t been accepted yet that I hope will be a good fit. I send them out. I collect my rejections. It’s the journey, I know. I know. I just imagined myself further along by now. The effort/reward cycle doesn’t flow the same way as it does in other fields. This is something I am still getting used to. As my mentor has told me this spring: this is part of the journey and the only way out of it is through.

I kinda hate through. I’m ready to fly over. Or jump. Or pole vault. Or teleport.

The thing about “through” is you have to build the bridge/walkway as you go. The planks are the rejection letters, the stories that didn’t quite work, the stories that work but haven’t found a place yet, the craft books bought, the craft classes taken, the sage advice, the stories read… Even if “through” isn’t a straight line, the pathway is laid down bit by bit, learning by learning, and the result is… well, I don’t know yet. A foundation for good work to come. The opportunity to look back and say, “I’ve come a long way.” A story of self to tell. Or maybe it’s none of those things… I’ll let you know when I get there.

Here’s what I know right now: out in the middle of a field, a garden bed rises.

That garden bed is a “Fiction” folder full of stories I’m proud of. It’s full of stories that didn’t exist before, representing a timeline of my craft journey, changing and growing as I learn. I’d love to see my garden bed full of flowers or fruit or veggies, but for now, I just have the solid foundation. The only way to fill it up is to keep writing, submitting, collecting my rejections, and striving to get lucky. The only way I can guarantee that nothing will grow is if I stop building it, filling it, and nourishing it.

I am fine with that.

I’m frustrated with that.

I am here, with that, sharing space with what I have and dreaming of what it can become in time.

If you’re a writer who is also trudging “through,” I wish you good writing this summer. There are so many wonderful programs designed to encourage you to just keep writing this summer: GrubStreet is doing a summer write-a-thon, Jami Attenberg is leading the well-known #1000WordsofSummer program, and my little MetroWest Writers’ Guild is doing a Stay-Focused Summer support group.

Cheers to tomorrow’s blooming gardens, built on today’s strong foundations.