Standing in line drives me up the wall, whether it is at the bank, on the interstate or at a restaurant. Someone I used to know, gone now from this world and much missed, once told me that she did not think I would wait an extra five minutes to have lunch with Jesus.
One of my favorite cartoons, I have a photocopy of it in a folder somewhere, shows two vultures, sitting upon a sagging branch, and one says to the other: "What do you say we kill something?"
It is a character flaw for anyone; it is particularly troublesome for a writer. I have been writing fiction for almost five years; short stories since February, last year (I started when I finished my first novel, Lifting Up Veronica).
During those eighteen months, I only submitted a few stories for publication, in part because I didn't believe most of what I wrote was good enough (I'm still not certain of that), but mostly because I couldn't stand the thought of rejection. And so, waiting wasn't even an issue.
I submitted flash stories to Everyday Fiction because I fell in love with the site; Jordan and Camille's acceptance of my stories has given me the courage to submit to other publications. I have fourteen stories out right now, one of them for a print anthology and another to a professional-rate publication, and having to wait for the responses is driving me mad; I haunt my mailbox and the Hotmail site. Maybe I should have something to eat while I wait.
I wonder if Jesus is available for lunch?