Commit me

This should be a post of celebration. And the celebration will come--I promise, cross my heart, etc. But tonight I've been thinking (a dangerous concept / I know).

Everyone. . . okay, every romantic comedy. . . seems to talk about "fear of commitment." Yeah, I don't have that. In fact, I seem to have a flaw in the opposite direction: I overcommit, refusing to back away once I'm committed, regardless how harmful the situation might be.

But everyone must have a fear, right? What else prevents relationships, etc., from happening? (There are other things in life, but why talk about them?) Tonight I realized, in that kind of delayed reaction that makes me really bad at video games, that I'm afraid of rejection. Because rejection means that there must be something wrong with me. I only risk when I'm pretty sure I'll win/succeed or when I'm completely apathetic, or at least can pretend to be.

I'm 99.9% sure you're rolling your eyes at me, but this is the moment in the blog where I hit myself upside the head, so stick around.

I was at dinner last night with my 617 class. The professor zeroed in on me and asked what I wanted to do with my life. . . maybe the question was a little less grandiose, but that's what it felt like. I told her I wanted to be her. . . maybe the answer was a little less grandiose, but that's what I meant. I want to teach and research and write. And she pointed her finger at me in a rather grandiose way (that was real and not for effect this time) and told me I needed to start sending my poetry out, start trying to get published.

I'd like to time out for a second to point out that her first attempt at publication was accepted by the New Yorker and endorsed by Mark Strand.

I'd also like to point out that she's right--I have to try. Even though it means being rejected. Even though Kim was first published in the New Yorker and has this to her credit (and yes I linked that because it's brilliant and I think you should buy it, or at least ask to borrow my copy), she said she still gets rejected at least 70% of the time.

Wait, didn't I say this post was about relationships? Well, that part is much shorter. After five years, I think it's time. Really time. I just wish I knew what that meant.