When we shove a seed into the dirt we are — usually without knowing it — making a deal with the universe. Here, we say, is our hope: a crop. We need your cooperation in seeing this thing through.
We good?
For over 10,000 years, people have been making this deal and it has to be admitted it’s working out in the Big Picture. We’ve managed to increase human population by 25 fold in that span. Nearly everyone else on the planet isn’t particularly thrilled with this development and that’s a topic for another piece.
Yeah, rah rah rah Human Race.
But how’s that working out at the individual level? Not great. There’s a very tough reality at play here. If you didn’t get the memo: you can’t count on the rain following the plow. When it does, be sure to thank your personal gods. But always keep in mind that you can do everything right and if the rain doesn’t come you go hungry.
The rain hasn’t been following my plow for quite some time now
It’s just damned lucky for me that the corn I’m planting isn’t what I need to keep from starving (if you haven’t picked up on it yet, we’re talking metaphor here, Pumpkin).
That doesn’t mean that it’s not valuable corn and that I don’t hope for a decent harvest from time to time. It does mean that I’ve had to adjust my definition of harvest. I have been the cranky recipient of countless rejections and, more recently, ghostings from far too many editors over the years. While the all-knowing dispensers of “helpful” advice still tell me to submit — don’t you hate that word in this context? — my work to traditional publishers I have made the decision that life is too damned short to wait on them.
I have this simmering pot of, uh, corn that is done waiting for some gatekeeper to magnanimously allow it to find readers. My corn can’t wait for the editors or the rain.
So here I am, back out in the field, toiling away with no particular expectation of a bumper crop. But here you are, toiling next to me (ok, if I’m doing this right it’s not toil but you know what I mean), reading my corn, uh, stories. And having committed myself to daily publishing during this start of the planting season, I am seeing exactly how little rain there is if I’m equating rain with money.
I wonder if it’s time to beat my plowshare into a sword — to recklessly mix my metaphors here.
I’ll be the first to admit I’m a navel-gazer when it comes to the crop I’m ready to put into the ground. I’m happy when the numbers are good but I haven’t been particularly interested in analyzing why certain strains of corn get good numbers while some do not. I’m also haven’t been keen on only planting the strains of corn that get the good numbers. I may have to take a look at that.
Is it time to pander? Should I ruthlessly cut away all the different types of corn I like to plant and only focus on what “you” want to eat, uh, read?
Let’s give this a little thought, shall we?
Ok, that’s good enough.
If I wanted to be a factory farm I’d be subscribing to all those How-To newsletters and signing up for courses and getting ready to rake in the cash. Call me a fox who has little interest in those grapes (who is also clearly a little too fond of all these food metaphors).
But I do have corn to plant and if it rains even a little, good. But until I’m standing in the middle of my field, casting my words in a wide circle of silence without a single reader, I’m going to go with the crop I enjoy planting.
If you’re still reading, fabulous, because standing in this field with you is all the rain I need.
© Remington Write 2023. All Rights Reserved.
I really enjoy the corn you are planting. Don’t be discouraged if you don’t get “a good hard rain” (as we Midwesternern country folk say). Sometimes sporadic showers serve the same purpose. Keep on doing your thing, you’re doing great.