Swept away

Posted on 26 November 2003

I have just sent emails to Northern Ireland, France, and Vancouver. I love this means of communication. “Why then, the world’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.” If only the rest of my life were so easy.

I am trying, this morning, to make peace with myself. I am a tough woman. I keep thinking of Woodman and her line “Bringing the inner and outer worlds into harmony is living one’s destiny.”

I don’t want to be swept away and put out with the garbage. Or in Mary Oliver’s word’s: “I don’t want to end up having simply visited this world.”

The other date Kate sent me an email and said that she sends out three proposals a week. She does this with a toddler underfoot. I told her that she puts me to shame. She told me that there is no shame.

There is no shame, I believe, it I try, if I keep putting my writing out. There is no shame even if I’m not published. But there is shame if I bury my head and tell myself that I’m simply not good enough, that I may as well give up.

I thought the other day that yet another rejection didn’t affect me. But it does. I have lost enthusiasm. And still, I don’t understand why one of the publishers I’ve sent “Dangerous Liaisons” to, doesn’t see that it is interesting and worthy. A few weeks back, Kate sent me an article from the Toronto Star that I quoted in my query to the same paper:

“On October 19, 2003, Toronto Star columnist, Antonia
Zerbisias, writes that ‘What the media need is more
sex’ and specifically notes newspapers’ hypocrisy
in never mentioning genitalia.”

So I sent them my article that outlines a brief history of the clitoris and its importance to women and men. They rejected it. Is this tiny rosebud so insignificant? Do they fear it? Perhaps if I called it by another name? Are we not all sexual beings?

I’m fed up but I will send the story out again – as is – no euphuisms – and see what happens.


I’m also going to send my mother story out again – but that appears to be another sore spot. I’m at a loss.

Okay Kate, you have challenged me. Three of something will go each week. Why not?



I have just arrived home from working. Two images sit in my mind.

At the store, I held a month old baby girl – a female in miniature – in my arms.

I walked home and stopped for a coffee and read a few pages from “The Pregnant Virgin.” Marion Woodman is in India on the ceiling of her hotel room, looking down at her sick middle-aged body covered in vomit and excrement. Mentally, she gives it a kick. She knows she can abandon it and die.

So, first, I see new life, sweet smelling, trusting, and secondly, not-so-young life, foul smelling, questioning.

Woodman writes: “All my life I had hated my body. It was not beautiful enough. It was not thin enough. I had driven it, starved it, stuffed it, cursed it, and even now kicked it, and there it still was, trying to breathe, convinced that I would come back and take it with me, too dumb to die.”

Sounds like me.

I’m wondering all kinds of not so profound things like “what happens that makes us despair of our physical selves ” and “perhaps this is the way life is supposed to be. This is the challenge.”

Gill and I will soon attend our first yoga class. Mike may join us. The day has disappeared.

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