Hello, dearest followers. Today was the first day of work at my adult-like job and it went as smoothly as one could hope. My new coworkers seem lovely, they even hung a sign for me at my new desk and celebrated with cupcakes. My name is on a door; I have my own desk. I feel like a real person, compared to my collegiate part-time jobs. Although, not all was rainbows and name tags. Last night I had my bags meticulously packed for the unknown first day. Despite my best efforts, I still managed to misplace my bag and go into work frantic carrying only my cell phone. No makeup to shield me, no notebooks to make me feel writerly. How embarrassed I was when I admitted I brought no drivers license or checks to the Human Resources manager. Perhaps I’ve not yet mastered this “adult” shtick.
I think I might make a little illustration a-la Schoolhouse Rock about the process a book goes through to get published. My supervisor walked me through the steps, and I admit it was quite fascinating. Would you guys like something along those lines?
I got a rejection letter last night from a literary magazine that I forgot I even submitted to in the first place. It was a blow to the ego, but at least I didn’t have my hopes dashed – no hope existed in the first place. That disappointment was swiftly diluted by a recent publication of my essay by the think tank Im-possible. It’s a collection of minds and writers who aspire to share ideas about design, education, and human experience in the modern world. The project they are launching is called Sharrisburg, in which writers from around the country (and perhaps the world) share stories about their towns from which other cities could learn.
Here you can read my piece about community and how one can (and should) foster it in growing cities.