I am thinking about success. I’ve been stomping around for days with a resignation letter in my bag, snarling to myself that I’m going to quit this stupid, mind numbing job and devote myself full time to living a creative life. And then I get the Black Lawrence chapbook rejection. Not even a semi-finalist. And then I get the triple-play rejection from Black Warrior/Indiana/Hayden’s Ferry. And I think, how can I quit my job in the face of clear evidence that I could live a “creative life” but that doesn’t mean anyone’s going to publish my creative shit? What if you threw a creative life and nobody came? What if I live a creative life and no one cares? What if I devote myself to writing and other creative pursuits and remain mediocre and unacknowledged. Shouldn’t creativity be for creativity’s sake? I know I’ve whined about – I mean, discussed this before. Yes, I should love the process. And sometimes I do. And if I never got another publishing credit, I would probably still do creative shit – my little collage cards, iPad drawings, occasional quilt, the occasional etcetera. But I would be bitter about it. (That’ll learn ‘em.) Or I need to think carefully about this idea of “success” and really hone in on what, on any given day, with regard to any given creative initiative, I define success as. If at the moment I believe it has to do with getting published in magazines, then I’d better double down and get my work out there and out there and out there. But I had better leave room for other kinds of successes – a friend mentioned to me the other day that she had just reread a poem I had written some years ago for her husband’s birthday about a day we’d all had together, and she said, “it was just perfect.” Now THAT’s the kind of success I should revel in. That’s gold to hang around my neck on a ribbon.