To the people who don't feel the need to write me back

Dear Sirs and Madams, As I write to you, masters of my world, day after day, I know it is important to keep a good perspective. I have my husband and family and friends. I have my health, and a roof over my head. I have life, sweet life, and I am on a journey - discovering my true potential as a writer, or who knows what else! What more could a person ask for?

As a younger adult I might have exclaimed, "Nothing!" and gotten on with my day. But at this stage of my professional career (which, by the way, is pretty much non-existent at the moment) I beg to differ. Not "nothing." I could ask for a lot more.

For instance, I could ask that one of you, just one, write me back. Here are some examples of what you could say.

"Dear Mrs. McDonough,

Thank you very much for your recent essay submission. We found your personal wit and style clever and brilliant and would like to hire you as a full-time columnist. The pay is millions. When can you start?

Very Sincerely Yours,

[insert well-known current events mag title here]"

There's one example. Seeing as I returned from my summer vacation over a month ago, however, and have yet to hear anything substantial from any of you, despite the fact that I've been writing what seems to me like a decent amount of emails and letters (none of which, by the way, seem desperate or unintelligent, because I've been studying how to write such queries in my "Writer's Market" book) I would accept the following, as well - simply ensuring me you know I am alive, and although brilliant, perhaps not right for you.

"Dear Mrs. McDonough,

Thank you so much for your recent query letter and resume. Although your ideas were, undoubtedly, unique, creative and intriguing, we have decided they are not right for our publication. Your ideas are, in fact, Mrs. McDonough, too good for us. We suggest you submit to The New Yorker, The Times, The Post - only the best. We wish you good luck on what will obviously be an amazing and historic career.

Very Sincerely Yours,

[insert magazine or newspaper title here]”

That's all I'm asking for, just an acknowledgment. I know you are busy putting together your issues and everything, but you don't have time to send a tiny email? To call me up one afternoon, even to tell me you are 100 percent not interested? (which, by the way, would be crazy, because I'm pretty good)

My friends, (I don't know why I'm even bothering to butter you up and call you "my friends" because, first of all, I don't even know you, and secondly, friends would have contacted me by now) I'm getting to the point where I'd be happy with a flat out rejection - even an unkind correspondence. There's only so much sitting at home talking to the dogs about what you should wear that day a person can take. Wait a second. Did I say sitting at home talking to the dogs? I meant sitting at home working on articles and scheduling interviews, in between reading chapters of great works of literature and philosophy.

"Dear Mrs. McDonough,

We didn't like your story ideas. Where do you get off sending us half-baked personal commentaries that you think are 'really funny?' We at [insert publication title here] do not find a) stories about your husband's birding habit b) stories about your minor health issues or c) stories about your father's style and lack of technological proficiency, funny.

Please do not contact us again. Get a life.

[insert publication title here]"

You see, even if I were to receive a letter like the above, I'd at least have a spring board of sorts with which to spurn myself forward, working harder, to avoid another rejection.

Instead, I have nothing, but the option of sitting and waiting, delving deeper and deeper into my creative resources, that weren't that deep to begin with, in order to put forth more work for your review. And even if I do push forward, ignoring the sustained silence from you, my judges, how do I know you are reviewing my hard work (or whatever came out when I sat down in front of the computer)? How do I know you aren't using my letter as a coffee cup coaster in the morning while you, the editorial staff, all laugh about the little people and their little ideas, and then discuss getting Seymour Hersh to do your next feature?

That's the thing. I don't know. And so, like a blind, wounded soldier, I push onward. Typing as fast as my hard-working hands can type, waiting in vain for an answer. Taking breaks if and only if something really, really good is on television.

I have attached my resume to this letter and can provide writing samples if needed. If you are interested in finally contacting me, before I lose it, come over to your offices and give you a piece of my mind - and believe me, I know where your offices are because I've sent you mail, I don't know if you've noticed - you can contact me by phone or email, any time (day or night, or even in the middle of the night, really, it's ok if you wake me up).

Very Sincerely Yours,

Cara M. McDonough

Schooling myself in the classics

As I mentioned a while ago, I've taken it upon myself to do a little reading during this transitional period. Since J and I finally cashed in on a Barnes and Noble gift certificate from our wedding, we both recently came home with a stack of books and giddily embarked upon several. The result has been my reading four books: "Heat," by Bill Buford, "Cesar's Way," by Cesar Millan, "The Shape of Water," one of the fabulous Italian mysteries by Andrea Camilleri, and then, of course, the one I like to tell people about, "Don Quixote." For example, someone asks, "Hey Cara, reading anything interesting?"

And I get to say, "Actually, I just started 'Don Quixote,'" and I get to say it in a sort of modest and unassuming tone, like I just, you know, picked it up. Instead of saying, "I spent all morning reading that book by the dog whisperer guy, and I'm struggling through the analytic introduction to "Don Quixote,'" which is closer to the truth, as in, it is the truth.

The 24-page introduction to the novel, by scholar A.J. Close, is difficult enough that I have to dedicate my full attention to the cause, sitting out on the quiet porch, reading paragraphs over and over and summoning my age-old literary skills, the ones I used in college when I'd raise my hand boldly during English classes and suggest something somewhat intelligent about Yeats or Richard Wright.

After a little while though, I admit, sentences like this,

"The hero's primordial motive is reader's make-believe exaggerated to the point where the 'willing suspension of disbelief' has passed into total abandonment of it." (Close, p. xix)

become almost comfortable again, the major problem being that when reading four books, including a book about dogs, it's easier to pick up one of the, ah, less wordy, more modern works. And I haven't even gotten to Cervantes yet. Cervantes great story that includes old-world spelling and multiple volumes and books. But because I value taking on literary adventures and challenging myself, I will. And also because I really, really like telling people I'm reading it and casually leaving it around the house, like, "Yeah, yeah, I watched two plus hours of the new lineup on ABC last night, sure, but look - Don Quixote. Yup. Page? Oh, I'm on page seven. But I just picked it up..."