Swimming noodles and uppercuts.

I got my first rejection. The first of a lifetime, you say? Yes, I know. But I'm not ready to get used to this. I mean, how many times did Lyle Lovett hit on his favorite waitress at Olive Garden until he finally got a record contract and a mini-marriage with Julia? A lot, I tell you. Would you giggle and flirt with Lyle Lovett at an airport bar if you thought he was a dentist? Only if he carried nitrous in a Camelbak, I tell ya.

What are we talking about?

Oh. So I've got a friend who writes and we realized a couple weeks ago we had submitted pieces to the same magazine. I told him last night I got rejected, and he did a little victory dance because he'd not yet heard back from the editors. I didn't think I was competitive about this particular pursuit, but I felt my shoulders hunch and my fists clench as he hopped around in a circle. When things go badly somehow my body wants to box. I had a dream about him last night. He was taunting me from very far away with a big swimming noodle. A big green foamy swim toy. And this is what it means: I want to punch him in the face and then go swimming.

So with this type of insight, you'd think I'd be wowing editors right and left. Maybe I need more punch in my stories.

You want updates?

I suppose there's a worn-out plotline for the psychotic episodes of a wanna-be writer. I'm at Act II, Scene 7: Heroine Reads Recently Completed Story and Chokes on Her Own Bile. I've become so sick of my own syncopated style that I rebel by talking in drawn-out James Joyce paragraphs when I interact with people in real life. My children. They think I'm like some kind of haywire Happy Meal toy that won't quit talking about Shreks farts. The tellers at Missoula Federal Credit Union draw straws to see who has to put up with my babbling commentary on the relative merits of chained-up pens vs. a cup of complimentary pens. All because my so-called style is a Hemingway/Carver ripoff. Short sentences. Succinct details. Lots of dialogue. Plenty of headaches. Much hand-wringing. Never satisfied. Act II, Scene 8: Heroine, Recovering from a Near-Death-By-Bile-Strangulation Experience, Joins a Merry Band of Recycling Hippies and Grows Out Her Armpit Hair and Sells Hemp Sunglasses. Pictures to follow.