To My Own Heart’s Discontent

I am so ready to slam all the publishing houses and literary agents. I am ready to slam weak spots in the feminist movement. Feeling frustrated enough, I am ready to ply my fist to the wall but, having done that once before and knowing how time- and money-consuming the ensuing repair would be compels me to restrain myself. Instead, I am considering finding a weighted pick and piercing the ground again and again. Only, I know I would just be digging myself a hole. And that’s why I hold back from slamming, because, even though I feel holed up already, I’ll end up deeper if I keep picking at the ground.

Still, I must vent, I seek to on this one day of NaBloPoMo and then it will pass on, go into archives as I pile new daily posts on top of it, including more chapters of my novella.

This Tuesday’s prompt: What is one place you need to see to feel like your life is complete? prompted my deepest desires of what I’d like to see and it is not a place. I have been places. I love to travel, taking the chance when I have funds to take a cruise of the Greek isles, a land tour of Ireland…. I am a firm believer in investing available funds in experiences, not material goods. A stage of completion to my life would be to hold a full-length work of mine in published form, my name being the sole author of the material. I have achieved the stage of short story publishing. I would like my standalone work. will I ever find an audience?

This is where I feel the urge to slam feminism. It has stalled in some aspects. My husband asked, during a nail polish commercial, where its place was in the movement? I would definitely not think in a forward direction. I thought the world was over-ready to enjoy a woman mechanic protagonist in stories. After shipping out my storylines to agents, sharing with critique groups, and pitching, I’ve seen that’s not the case. In fact, it seems men find women mechanics sexy whereas women seem not to grasp the appeal they have for them. I think of Young Frankenstein, the musical, and this clip:

I will not forever shy from make-up, high heels, and skirts. However, I do not need them to attract the problem out of an engine. I have to dig-in, elbows deep, get into the grease of the matter and find out what’s making that racket when you’re driving your vehicle, and you know what? The hands-on work feels great! Accomplishing. Satisfying. I hardly dressed as a mechanic for my wedding, date nights, or trips to The Taste of The City. There are moments for dress-up, and my wardrobe has especially changed on this eighth month of my pregnancy. I have read it before, I believe in The Twisted Sisterhood, by: Kelly Valen, that women, headed out for a party, go through such detail in their appearance as more a competition with other women. No, we shouldn’t dress in tuxes, penguin outfits, to match the men. As proof of my womb, women are still substantially different than men and yet seek to be their equals. My nail polish will never stick in a degreasing, parts-cleaning, sink.

As for publishing houses, why can they not stick to their posted wait times? I refuse to needle them beyond that point; patience is advised me, and the trying of this is what has me considering a punch to something, or a pick to something else as frustrated as I am. I want to produce by my fingers, knit words together to share stories, and I am in limbo in finding out whether or not I have attained the skill at this point. This point having succeeded short story publishing, writer’s conferences, numerous stints at my keyboard or notebook. Practice makes perfect. I’m going for decent enough to be worthy of investment, but another day and no word, each day patience tried anew. And not all my stories are about women mechanics. I have polished away at a Young Adult fantasy. And I wait. I could write some more as I wait, attempt to spin new tales, but to what extent? Am I wasting my time? I’d rather write here, test the readership waters in other styles.


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