Let me start off by Complaining

I subscribe to a weekly newsletter of twitter pitch calls. Most opportunities listed are beyond my experience, but every so often, I find a gem. This happened last week, though technically not a pitch call as it required a 1,000 word personal essay-think community blog. To qualify, I had to be a parent (check) and a person with one or more disabilities (check check check check..). I clicked the links, found the blogs, and began to read. 

There is no nice way to put this so here it is: boring.                

They. Were. So. Boring. If I need a running commentary on what a person does during their day while managing kids and/or disabilities, I will actually read my friends’ actual facebook posts. I want to know how it feels doing all the things they each so dryly describe. I want to forget I am reading a blog post, but each was predictable. Surely, I could write a better essay than “Listacle Larry” and the Pollyanna of Grandmothers? 

They.Were.

So. Boring.

You only have to read one more; well, you only have to start it anyways

Sigh. And so I clicked the next title. My eyes kept darting ahead, anticipating the inevitable, no, the unintended drop, but it never came. It was, in fact, the most intentioned piece I’ve read lately and I read every single word.

My work is so precious

I cannot let it go.

I emailed my submission with mere seconds left on the clock. It’s absurd and stupid to do this because it is basically telegraphing, “my work is so precious, I cannot let it go”. In my defense, I found the opportunity late, have a five year old, and duh, disabled. I’m not sure I would have worked and reworked and made my submission though, without reading David Peydre’s piece (start here). 

I miss writing. I miss late night spelunking inside myself, looking for the exact phrasing and rhythm, refusing the trope of rhetoric Anaphora (more on this later). I want my readers to feel, and I want to take them there. 

“Now, when you’re disabled, you are taught repeatedly that you’re a burden. You’re made ashamed of needing things, of needing help. My wife and I call it ‘the shame of existing’.” David Peydre 

“The shame of existing”-now that is palpable.

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