Interlude

This week I'm going to bring you something a little different. The last four days have been interesting in a potentially pivotal sort of way, and I felt it was worthwhile to record the events for posterity. We'll resume the usual Q&A meme next week.

It all started about three weeks ago. In the last few days of May I put the "final" touches (after all, "Art is never finished, only abandoned" according to Leonardo Da Vinci) on a story I intended to submit for publication. It's the first story, as far as I can recall, that I've ever submitted with the end goal of getting paid for it. My first choice has an electronic submissions system, so on the evening of June 1st, I submitted my words to the ether and began the excruciating process of waiting for a reply.

It was excruciating. Some of the anxiety was expected: it was my first attempt, and I'm not good at waiting in this kind of circumstance. The projected 4-8 weeks turnaround seemed like an eternity when all I wanted was an answer. But I was completely unprepared for the extent of my vulnerability. Imagine, if you will, a feeling like when you skin your knee. Only it's inside your head, and it's formed around your entire psyche.

As an aside to any of my younger readers: when you're making a wager, make sure the payout for winning is worth the pain you'll endure in earning it. My pride got the better of me and when my wife bet I couldn't go two weeks without checking the online tracking offered by the publisher, I accepted the challenge without bothering to work out any of the important stuff, like, you know, stakes. I can't in clear conscience say it would have been better had I been able to track the submission through the system. I can say it was hard not to be able to.

At any rate, I won the bet. Well, mostly.

They rejected the story on the 13th day, which was this past Thursday. Deep down I knew I had no right to expect them to take my first submission, and I didn't. What I was aiming for was a "rejection-plus". The usual form letter with a few words of constructive critique/encouragement straight from the editor's desk. I didn't get that either. Why? Who knows? From what I've read the process of getting published is like trying to sink baskets from beyond the 3-point line while blindfolded. Practice as much as you can to refine your technique, take your shot, and then hope for the best.

Meanwhile, there was a simmering unrest within the postal service. Contract negotiations hadn't gone well and twenty four hours after I lobbed my creation into the unknown, the union started rolling strikes across the country. Twelve days later - two days before the rejection e-mail - the service would lock out its workers, shutting down all mail services.

This is important because the only other markets I know for my story don't accept electronic submissions yet. Under normal circumstances, I would print the story, bundle it into an envelope and ship it to its next destination. That's hard without a postal service. I suppose I could use a courier service, but that seems like overkill, especially for a complete unknown like me.

So, with Plan A on hold until the strike is over, Plan B is to prep a second story for submission. The idea was that I would go home that night and after doing some research, to see if I could dig up clues to help my second submission's prospects, I'd plow into my second tale.

Can you guess what happened next? It's been well telegraphed, I think. You don't know the details, of course, but it will come as no surprise that my hard drive died on me. Approximately 30 seconds into my online recon, the screen froze in a way I've never seen. After a few failed reboots and a smartphone-enabled Google search, I was ready to eulogize my dearly departed technology. It wasn't exactly a child-friendly tribute. So much for Plan B.

As another aside to my younger readers: when prompted to make recovery disks for a proprietary computer system, DO IT. I don't have any media with which to re-install an operating system on the new drive I have to buy. The postal strike means I can't expect to receive the disks the manufacturer will kindly ship me for the bargain price of an arm (no leg) any time soon. Had I taken just an hour a year ago, I'd have a working machine this evening. As it stands, I'm hoping the 6+ year old backup PC I have doesn't blow its last circuit.

The net result of my misadventures was that my primary time sink, for either distraction or productivity, was gone. I was going to need alternative activities. Last minute coordination for the kitchen renovations my wife and I are having done took up a good part of the weekend.

Fortunately, my lovely wife noticed a copy of Malcolm Gladwell's "Outliers" - which I'd mentioned wanting to read a few months ago - in one of the stores we were zipping through. That took care of the remainder of my free time this weekend. It's an interesting read. I won't go into any detail here, but I recommend it to anyone interested in a study of the mechanics of success.

Right about now you're probably wondering why I've gone to all this trouble to set up the book. (If you weren't, you definitely are now!) Naturally, as I was reading, I applied the concepts to my own experience. A pretty clear picture formed: I've got the other bases covered to varying degrees, the only thing I'm missing is the hours.

So I'm going to undertake an experiment. Gladwell postulates that it takes 10,000 hours of dedicated practice to achieve mastery in a discipline.

2 down. 9,998 to go.