Tuesday, April 28, 2015

When The Rejections Come Marching In... Procrastinate with Rum

I’m in New Orleans ya’ll.  How I end up in this town is sometimes a mystery to me.  I visited New Orleans for the first time during Mardi Gras when I was nineteen years old, and I didn’t know where it was on a map.  I won’t elaborate as someday my children may read this.

Some habits are hard to break.

I’m not nineteen any more, and I can’t navigate Bourbon Street the way I did twenty-some-odd years ago, but New Orleans is still my favorite city in the world, and the food is still flippin fantastic.


Eggs Benedict Poboy from Stanley's Jackson Square

Bouillabaisse at Muriel's Jackson Square

Black Eyed Peas and Collard Greens at Angeline New Orleans

But before I go on and on about alligator po-boys and freshly shucked oysters and crawfish étouffée, let’s first examine the slew of rejection letters that have flooded my In-Box over the past couple of weeks.

The New England Review rejected Quittin Time; Cleaver Magazine rejected You Can’t Trust Police Reports; and most significantly, Bayou Magazine rejected Me and Peggy and Public Transportation on the same day my ass rolled into The Big Easy, which earned me a self-inflicted Hurricane from Pat O’Briens.

This trip to the USA started in Philly, where I spent time with my family and friends, although it’s never enough.  A note to The Bestie:  I loved seeing you and gorging on birthday cake with you, but my biggest regret is that we didn’t have at least one lunch together in Bala.  Being in New Orleans has brought back all kinds of fun memories though, and it makes me even more grateful for a friendship that spans so many decades and experiences.  If I could teleport you here right now for beignets at Café Du Monde, I totes would!

Alternatively, if I could teleport us to Sullivan’s Steakhouse for a lively discussion about Kanye West’s Katrina comments, I’d do that too.

Instead, I think I’ll meander the French Quarter, invade a voodoo shop, and see if I can conjure up the ghost of a twenty-three year old me, so I can tell her that life is good despite occasional setbacks, and seafood gumbo is still out of this world amazing, even when it shows a little faster on the hips, and that home is where the heart is, even if it’s in France.









PS - Apparently, my novel is on hiatus while I nurse my rejections with rum, jazz, and nostalgia.


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