A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-One-Hundred-And-Ninety-One

I received my contributors copy of the Atlanta Review.  There is a great thrill in holding such a thing, in opening to the table of contents and leafing through to find the precise page, knowing that out in the world, others have that same edition in hand, might discover those words.  It represents a great deal to me.  There is something powerful about having a physical object of that sort.  It feels almost magical, like a thing I helped to manifest into the world.  Of course, my work is only one little poem, one small piece in the journal, and I am not deluded to think that is more than what it is, but I also know I need to honor the sense of accomplishment it does bring me.  I rarely feel that, and I think that I often stifle it or push it down in myself when the moments come that feel celebratory, as though I don't deserve them, or, even, as if feeling joy at it would be a mistake.  It feels so often that I am not getting anywhere, that nothing significant is happening, but when I do have these moments, I try to convince myself that it is not important, that it isn't worth celebrating, if only because it is a set up for disappointment.  But I am proud of this poem, and I am honored to have it in the Atlanta Review, and it feels good to hold the results of my own labor in my hands.  It may be a small thing, and it may not mean a great deal in the grand scheme, but that does not change the significance of it as a thing in itself.