On Friday night I finished reading Henri J. Nouwen's book, The Return of the Prodigal Son--a classic Christian work centered around reflections of Rembrandt's painting of the Biblical parable. The fact that I finished reading this book on a Friday night is also indicative of how totally boring my life really is.
Still, Friday, on the whole, was something of a treat for me . . . as I felt like the prodigal returning home--at least in terms of writing.
After a hardcore workout at the gym early Friday morning (a pectoral and upper back day!), I purchased groceries , mailed some Christmas letters, and then returned home to settle in at the writing lab, where, over the next six hours, I hammered out a half dozen cover letters to various editors, emailed work to a half dozen others, and even submitted a small pile of poems (which is something I rarely do). I returned to my roots--and brainstormed my way to an eclectic blend of submissions in large thick packages that ranged from:
* An essay about Thomas Jefferson's last will and testament
* An essay about Gerald R. Ford
* An essay about the pileated woodpecker
* A personal opinion op-ed piece about the current sad state of publishing in America
* Six poems
* A personal essay about being a one-woman man (which I sent to the Atlantic, Harper's, and Outlander)
* Two book proposals (one to The Upper Room, and the other to Group)
And, what's more, this prodigal also returned with a vengeance and finished three Christmas stories that he hopes to publish NEXT YEAR. All in all, not a bad afternoon and not a bad return on an investment of six hours.
Which leads me back to Nouwen's little book. Guess I was just tired and my brain was fried. Thanks, Henri.
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