My First

I had a long day yesterday. Somehow, I scheduled everything I needed to get done before I go to Italy on one day. My eyebrows were perilously close to overtaking my face, so I made that appointment. I made an appointment for a massage for my next article. I had something that absolutely had to get done at work yesterday, and of course it was fucked up and I needed to fix it. I got it done, left work, had my hairs plucked from my face, and headed for Inman Square. My hatred for Cambridge continued unabated as Inman Street was not marked, leading me on a cold five-minute detour. I stomped down the street, cranky, having the "I've been here drunk before" feeling, and needing to pee.

I found the place, and it was relaxing. I sat in a hot tub for twenty minutes, which was nice. Unfortunately, the magazine's photographer came in and took pictures of me sitting in the tub, which was kind of weird. I always wondered how the girls on America's Next Top Model could get so flustered and confused by having their pictures taken, but now I know. "Amy, scoot over a little," "Put your hands back on your knees." Should I look at the camera? I don't think I was fierce.

I got out of the tub, put on a robe, and had a lovely massage. The first five minutes were kind of awkward since the photographer followed me into the massage room, taking pictures of my bare back, and probably the top of my butt. If you see pictures of me half-naked floating around, don't be surprised. I can only hope they are tasteful semi-nudes. The creepiest thing about the pictures was the "clickwheee" sound of the camera as the flash went off. It sounded like the cameras on CSI, and I felt more like a cadaver mauled in a gruesome fashion than a glorious woman having a massage. But, it was free, so I can deal.

My friend Yvette came up from Rhode Island, which was great. We had some delicious Thai food while we waited for her friends to get home so she could drop something off with them. I hadn't seen her in a month, so we got caught up. Then we went to the 1369 Coffeehouse.

Let me say this: I want to support independent coffeehouses. Starbucks isn't great. Dunkin can be horrible. I buy my breakfast and coffees at the independent Dunkin-esque place across the street from my office. So when Yvette and I wanted a nightcap of chai, we decided to support the local shop.

The snotty-ass hipster behind the counter was a dick when he nagged us to order before we'd examined the menu, got exasperated when Yvette asked how the chai was made and if they had soy milk. He looked everywhere but at us as he steamed the milk. Which would have been fine, if it tasted good, but it was sour and tasted like it had coffee in it, not like tea. So fuck you hipster scum, I am going to keep supporting chains until you get it right. Asses.

Yvette kindly drove me home, and I arrived home to find a letter addressed to me in my own handwriting. I was confused at first, since I thought it was a returned letter, but I saw the postage was correct. Then I remembered. I'd submitted a story to the Threepenny Review about a month ago. Since I am mercilessly free of freelance work (but unfortunately broke) I decided I would commit myself to the idea of getting my work published. I sent a personal essay that I'd written my senior year at Emerson that I got a lot of positive feedback on about my car and leaving URI. It sounds stupid but I assure you it is artfully done. The envelope was very light, so I knew what was inside.

"Thank you for your story. Unfortunately, we cannot use it in the Threepenny Review at this time. Wendy Lesser, editor."

I have gone pro. My first rejection letter.

The letter actually excited me. The time-honored ritual of the working writer has begun. I write something, and I imagine the accolades. I imagine myself in Best Short Stories 2006. I imagine Joyce Carol Oates saying, "Damn, this girl is good." But it doesn't work like that, and this reminded me of it. I've got to work my ass off for years, get published in dinky little publications until I build up a name and people are interested.

I plan to send it back out again. I'm not sure where-- I have a cheat sheet that Don Lee gave out at a workshop a few years ago at Emerson on how to get published of good publications to try. I'll check the Threepenny Review off for now, but I shall return to your slush box, Wendy. Maybe I'll hope Ploughshares is merciful towards alumni, but I doubt it matters, and they don't publish personal essays very often. But now I am motivated to get out there. We'll see what happens.