Definition

I always thought that I was a writer. Even as young as 12, I knew I should write. I kept journals and diaries and wrote poems and stories. I was told in school that I was a writer. I believed it. I remember in 7th grade telling my friends that I would write the "trashy" novels first and make millions and then write the really great literature once I had that writing life and could afford to write whatever I wanted. When later I earned a degree in English and panicked about making a living, I found teaching which I thought the perfect fit for a writer. I will teach the great literature and write it on my summer breaks. Perfect. Even later I was afforded the opportunity of creating my own schedule, ostensibly to stay home with the kids, but in the back of my mind a way to get that writing life without the "millions" that I hadn't made since I hadn't written any novels. Home during the day, I could write and hone my craft, and I did. I took online workshops and face-to-face workshops. I joined the Academy of American Poets and the Poetry Society of America, and I subscribed to The Writer and Poets and Writers. I sifted through websites and guidelines for submissions in print and online. I wrote and revised poems and stories. I sent poems to far-reaching places such as The New Yorker where I knew I'd never be published, and to online literary journals and those of my favorites that I subscribed to. I followed instructions to the letter and sent poems that were risk taking and original, in structured poetic forms and in free verse. I read the work published by the journals and submitted when I thought I'd hit the mark. And I did hit the mark, twice, once in an online journal and once in a journal in print. During this, my 50th year on the planet, I thought that my writing had found a few readers and was on the way to becoming my true vocation. I still teach to bring in the paychecks, but the writing was going to come to some kind of fruition in the form of a collection that would be cohesive and represent the best of what my art could be. As so much of this year has been, however,  rejections continue to disappoint and derail. I succumb to self-pity and then resolve to do better. This time, though, I am nearly ready to throw in the proverbial towel and live in the world of mediocrity from which I can't seem to extract myself, at least not with my words, which of these the best have eluded me.