Submitting
October 4, 2017 § 33 Comments
By Dheepa R. Maturi
Long ago, my grandmother peeled oranges for me — and by peeled, I mean stripped bare of rind, fascia, fibers and membranes until the bulbous cells underneath lay exposed and quivering. When I began to submit my writing to journals, I, too, felt stripped and offered for casual consumption.
I’d been writing my whole life, but in unpredictable bursts recorded on post-it notes and backs of shopping lists and even paper plates — little releases of a pressure cooker valve allowing me to function again when my throat felt too tight, my stomach, too constricted. And then, the pressure would rebuild.
The gradual movement of my writing from disposable dinnerware into computer files and a daily practice challenged and provoked me, but also allowed me to choose proactively where in my life and mind to dig and explore, where to shine light and hope as I wrote. At long last, I felt I was occupying myself, stepping into integrity and knowingness.
While I felt wonderment at all this road granted me, a side path continued to catch my eye and beckon darkly. I disregarded it. I ignored it again and again.
But I knew what it called me to do: submit my work.
* * *
Oh, no.
Did I really have to cross the line I’d circumscribed around my writing life? The very idea filled me with dread, conjured up tentacular beasts in my psyche and foretold bloody battles. But instinct told me the process would be worth it — if I could survive it.
At first, the lessons were benign, even universal. As I received my initial feedback, I began to comprehend the enormity of my learning curve with respect to the craft of writing. I began to understand the practice was more demanding and exhausting than I’d anticipated. I would need more endurance. More tenacity. A much, much thicker skin. I also found reserves of energy and optimism (not to mention skin) that I’d never known existed.
But then, more personal battles commenced. As rejections rapidly accumulated, I experienced a feeling of perpetual internal scrubbing. The act of submitting my work seemed to be wrestling my numerous neuroses simultaneously — I envisioned hundreds of nanites released into my brain, methodically correcting misfiring systems as they crawled. My head, my whole body, hurt all the time.
I saw my desperation for affirmation, realized that my sense of self-worth was dependent almost entirely on the approval of others — approval that was not forthcoming. Each rejection felt personal, visceral, like a judgment rendered upon me. I had to learn, for survival’s sake, that, despite my plethora of flaws, despite any dearth of talent and skill, I was nevertheless worthy of occupying space, of expressing what I needed to express.
I saw my pathological need for control. I wanted to hold each editor by the shoulders and explain what each line, each sentence meant and what incidents from my past had informed it. Eventually, I had to accept that my words might be disliked, brutally misinterpreted, or not understood at all, yet they needed to be released to the universe anyway.
I saw how well justified many of the rejections were. My own judgments upon others, my many and varied jealousies, my inability to achieve complete authenticity: all prevented me from translating my thoughts adequately into words, from harnessing and conveying truth.
Now, in the face of all of these beasts (whose heads are lopped off, only to grow back just when I believe them conquered), I feel a continuous impulse to close down and protect all of my vulnerable parts. The mother of all battles is to stay open, open, open in the face of all the defeats, to continue to submit, submit, submit.
Slowly, I have come to understand. To submit is not necessarily to surrender, tasting dust and defeat. Rather, it is an offering of one’s own particular concoction of shame and valor and pain and insight to others, as an act of love. I am not the orange, sacrificed to appease monsters unknown. Instead, I am the grandmother, offering all that I am capable of, in the best way I know, with hands open.
___
Dheepa R. Maturi is the director of an education grant program in Indianapolis and a graduate of the University of Michigan (A.B. English Literature) and the University of Chicago (J.D.). Her work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Every Day Poems, Tweetspeak Poetry, A Tea Reader, Mothers Always Write, Here Comes Everyone, Flying Island, Branches, Corium, and The Indianapolis Review. Her short story “Three Days” is a finalist in the Tiferet 2017 Writing Contest.
That last paragraph is magic. I will never see an orange the same way again.
Thank you so much for reading. I’m honored by your kind words. -Dheepa
Thank you. It is that word “submit” that feels like surrender of self, but the surrender is not in losing ourselves but to the act of sharing.
Yes, indeed! It was my hope to change the feeling around the word “submit.” Thank you for your comment. -Dheepa
Reblogged this on The Literary Life.
I appreciate the reblog, Katie — many thanks! -Dheepa
Lovely analogy.
Thank you for reading, Barbie. So glad you enjoyed it. -Dheepa
Perfect.
Thank you, my friend. I’m honored.
I too, shall never look at a orange the same. Beautifully written and thoughtful.
Thank you so much, Sheila. -Dheepa
My pleasure.
Beautiful, Dheepa.
Miss seeing you!
Lovely to hear from you, Becki! Thank you so much for taking time to read the essay.
So relatable and enjoyable to read. Also loved the analogy with the orange.
Thank you so much, Lindy, for your kind words. -Dheepa
What a perfect synopsis of my feelings! Beautuful work. Only problem is after reading this…I am beginning to comprehend the enormity of my learning curve!
Thank you so much for reading! -Dheepa
Open open open. Yes. What a beautifully realized and written piece.
Yes, indeed! In fact, I’ve written “OPEN” on the bulletin board in front of my desk. I need the daily reminder!
Twenty-four hours ago I failed to pass a test that would have given me the designation of Specialty certified surgical nurse, went home and cried that I wasn’t validated for my knowledge. Six hours later, I submitted a piece to Brevity I’d been dragging my feet on.
It felt good.
Your clarification on what it really means to submit helps me understand why it felt so good to share my thoughts.
Thank you!
Dear Susan, thank you for sharing your recent experience — and how wonderful that you sent your piece to Brevity just hours afterward! For me, too, so much of the journey involves just standing up again! All the best to you. -Dheepa
Wow! Thank you. I feel inspired by your courage and honesty. Thank you
I truly appreciate your reading it — thank you! -Dheepa
I love this. Thank you.
Thank you so much for reading!
you are a good writer in content of writing blogs
Many thanks!
Awesome!!!
You write with such courage. Thank you for your honesty!
Thank you for reading, Marla! Much appreciated!
[…] for control.” That’s what writer Dheepa R. Maturi found when she examined her own excuses. In Brevity magazine, she describes how, instead of actually submitting her work, she spent hours fantasizing […]