Imbolc Hare Moon
Deucalion and Pyrrha have come to a mossy, ruined temple, a pale image of its former, undrowned self. They bend down and offer prayers to Themis, a goddess of prophecy and justice. They are the only two people left after the flood. “We two are a crowd,” Deucalion says to Pyrrha.
This was in the afternoon’s section of Ovid and it rang a bell with me as I submitted my manuscripts. The dominant word being submit. The process of submitting a manuscript definitely has an offering quality to it, a sacrifice to whatever powers lie outside the study, those demi-gods who rule on the fate of creative work.
This is not a feeling I like very much, because there is always the possibility, as there was for Deucalion and Pyrrha, that the offering will not be accepted. In fact, I’ve already received one, “Not for me.” That’s after sending seven submissions out before lunch.
E-mail makes submission easier. And rejection, too. Yes, it stung. Just a bit, but it’s there. Not a bee sting, not that much, but a quick injection of rejection. This is normal. No sacrifice, no rejection. No sacrifice, no acceptance. The awful dialectic all creative people face. Perhaps this has been the root of religious sentiments from the very beginning.
In paleolithic times art must have had sacred power, the capacity to call up the animals for the hunt or incite the slaying of enemies, the rising of the sun. What, then, if the artist was not good enough? What if the art would not work the magic? Or, what if the tribe or clan believed it wouldn’t? What then artist, poet, singer?
The stakes feel the same now. At least to me.
