I don't know

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the tantalizing tease of a second round appearance — 
the hopes are flying high again 
let me go grab my landing shoes 
for when I meet the ground, so familiar 
how can we surrender to all the excitement? 
how do we build ourselves up 
over and over 
and manage to ever feel so strong? confident… 
I don’t know 
it’s enough to make sleep feel like a restless battle 
but just know it’s the being awake part 
that’s really what’s being fought over… 
dreams are still the gift 
aspirations make life sweet 
even with their sometimes (frequent) bitter notes 
your faith in me means everything 
and it’s glory to know I make you proud 
because pride is an enemy I struggle with, 
but not always in the here and now…
mhm, the clouds look nice and fluffy today, 
the sun is out, 
and the trees haven’t even made a sound

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Garbage Notes:

This one is about the fleeting and transitory bursts of confidence that we get as writers. Every time I sell a story or land some kind of accomplishment, it boosts me up for a little while. Then I puff myself up with confidence and that’s usually enough to push me forward for some time.

I wrote this last year after having advanced to the second round at a major publication—one of my favorite magazines. If accepted it probably would have been a landmark achievement for me. Prior to that, I’d never even gotten pulled out of the slush pile at this particular venue. So I felt myself get filled up with hope. But ultimately I didn’t get accepted. And I came floating right back down to the ground.

Being a writer means you’ll have a lot of these moments. The few wins you get are punctuated by countless almost-hits and could-have-beens. It’s a real test for your poise and your self-esteem.

As I’ve matured as a person I’ve realized that confidence has to come from within. It’s a belief in what you can do. Writing is an act of consistency and it’s a labor of love.

Yes, it’s nice to land the big ones. And every good creator deserves at least a few of these launching pads to success. These opportunities that will send us into the stratosphere—they’re out there, waiting for us. But to have the patience and steadfast work ethic is another thing. We have to do the work to get there. We have to withstand the “failures” in order to see progress.

The poem implies that these types of close calls can lead to endless frustration and sleepless nights. Maybe this is only partly true. Sure, I’ve spent a good amount of time ruminating and grumbling about rejections. But I know it’s better to let these moments pass without much thought. Because there are countless reasons for countless outcomes. And very little of it has to actually do with you and your talents. It’s just a weird and complicated game.

But we make it more complicated than it is. Pride is what gets in the way. While it’s good to make other people proud. We ultimately have to find pride in the work itself, not the outcome.

The trick is in the approach. I always try to get back to the simplicity of it. Of just putting the words down. Of not thinking or expecting too much. Of letting the stories and the poems flow right out of me, regardless of where they land.

The rest is for that other part of me. The critic. The stern editor. He’s useful when I let him out of his cage to do his thing. But the one in control—the one who gets to have the fun. The one who gets to play and go wild with imagination. That’s me—I give myself the spotlight every day, every night, when I gather what’s inside of me and speak in my own voice.

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Franco Amati 2024

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