In early December 2009 I submitted my lengthy essay “Indecision Over Michigan” to the Cooperative Press, a branch of the group Michigan Writers that helps emerging writers publish a chapbook in the literary genre of their choice. It’s a program intended to educate new writers on the entire publication process. As it says on their website, “Selected authors share the publishing costs and marketing responsibilities with Michigan Writers in return for the prestige of being published by a press that prints only carefully selected manuscripts.”

I thought it sounded like a great idea, and I was totally willing to foot the $250 for the actual printing of the books. I even rushed to cut my essay down from almost 12,000 to just under 10,000 words, to stay within their submission guidelines. I printed and mailed the literary spawn, and I waited patiently. Then on Sunday night I got an email notification that my essay was rejected. They received 14 submissions and had picked three for publication.

Man, it’s been a crazy fall. Every year that season feels less… “autumnal,” in the peaceful, calming sense of coming down from the highs of summer. And now all of a sudden the “holiday season” is upon us. I’ve never had to force myself into a Christmas state of mind the way I have this year. But I am living in one of the most grim, cheerless areas I’ve ever been in (well, aside from Northern Ireland, maybe). Anyway, I’ve got colorful strings of lights all over my apartment, I’m drinking plenty of vanilla honey chai tea, and I’m listening to copious amounts of jazz. Anything to keep the spirits up, really.

Part of my inactivity here has been due to broader activity on Supraterranean.com. After all, I did redesign the site in September. Then I went on a two-week cross-country road trip in October. And from mid-October almost until Thanksgiving, my work situation was consistently hectic. Now it’s December, and I’m just focusing on winding down and avoiding frostbite.

I’m also going through some personal creative transitions. I think it’s natural for a writer (or any kind of artist) to always be evaluating oneself, and asking what can be improved in method, style, and purpose. The purpose aspect is the most pressing right now. For those of you who have traced my activity on this blog, you know the general timeline of my reading and thinking process. The biggest milestone this year was Albert Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus. The book felt like a climax for the journey into literature and philosophy that began for me around the fall of 2005. The premise of the book was that we live in a world defined at all levels by one concept: absurdity. Camus argued that, despite the lack of inherent meaning in life, one can develop meaning and purpose through an unending dedication to creative work. It seemed to take a step beyond the basic tenets of Existentialism, and at least in some ways, it felt like the answer I had been looking for.