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Composting

My packet went in Monday night, and by 5:30 Tuesday, I had my response letter from Tim. And now it's time to compost.

I find that whenever I send in a packet, I go into a slump. Maybe it's the pause button after working like a maniac for days. Maybe it's the response letter. I'm not sure. All I know is that afterwards, I put on my hair-shirt and proceed to beat myself up. Vigorously. I truly believe that no one is as good at beating herself up as a writer. Possibly a dancer. I am both. Sigh.

So I cry.

And I cry some more.

And before I get it out of my system, I remind myself that I've had the same reaction sixteen other times. Well, ok, fifteen. There was that one packet last semester when Sarah Ellis said some very complimentary things about my critical thesis, but that's not foremost on my mind when I send in packets.

So I read. And read. And read. And I let the letters and words and sentences and structures and plots flow over me and compost deep into my garden of language and I hope that taking all of that in will somehow work its way back out again in a small green shoot.

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