I do believe that I have experienced my first (of many) unofficial – and yet, so official-feeling – rejection. I submitted a small article – more of a personal interest story – for our local newspaper publication, The Newcastle News. A few months ago, a local “free-lance writer” had written an article listing the reasons that she loved our little city. Not to be overly judgmental (and yet thoroughly judging), while I am a total and complete amateur to the writing world, I was not that impressed with her article. So, I decided: what the heck! Maybe this is a way to baby-step into the admittance of “I’m a writer.”

Just like with music, I hesitate when admitting any possibility of talent. Music has been a part of my life for nearly 17 years. I’ve taught lessons privately, taught in a school, teach on my own, I’ve had paid gigs, and yet I still don’t say, “I’m a musician.” Apparently I believe announcing that requires some sort of official documentation or something – proof that I lack. So my response to the “what do you do” question is: “I enjoy music….I play the flute and sing.” And so it’s not surprising that with writing, it’s not “I’m a writer,” it’s “I enjoy writing.”

And yet, here I was hoping for my first official rejection letter – something tangible that I could frame and hang on the wall next to where my Pulitzer will someday be. A big fat “Ah-ha!! You rejected me, wee little Newcastle News, but look at me now! Moooo-ahhh-ahh-ahhhhhhhhhh!” (Apparently being a writer also turns me into a mad scientist).

I know that rejection is the name of the game with writing…as it is often in life. You’ve gotta have a tough skin. I don’t know if my skin is quite there yet. When the latest edition of The Newcastle News arrived, I flipped through each page with bated breath. Maybe – just maybe – the editor didn’t respond to my email inquiry regarding my story. Of course he’d gotten it! And he loved it so much, it was so sensational, there was no point in taking the time to respond to me. Who would pass up on such a quaint personal story for our local publication?! So, maybe – just maybe – I’d find it on page 19. Oh. Nope. OK, glance over to 20. Nada. 21…22, here we go! Denied. 23. Rejected. 24. Zilch. 25 and we find ourselves at the “Police Blotter” – breaking news in our little corner of the world: car prowls are up. Bummer.

Oh well.

Here it is for you to read:

Ahh, Newcastle in the springtime. The tulips are up. The grass needs to be cut. The weeds are prolific in our flowerbed. And I love it all.

I missed the spring in Newcastle last year. I missed spring all together last year. From March 12^th until April 30^th, for seven weeks, for 49 full days, approximately 1176 hours, I hibernated – literally. I was stuck in a bed, in a room on the 6^th floor of Overlake Hospital. Why? To be an incubator. At 28 weeks pregnant, I went into preterm labor. My job was to lie there and keep our little guy, Zachary, a-cookin’.

Our now 3 ½ year old, Matthew was a preemie – born at 35 weeks. So, going into pregnancy Round Deux, we knew that we’d be carefully monitored lest we have another preemie. Turns out that baby brother Zach was even more anxious than Matthew. Contractions started 12 weeks before my due date. I checked into Overlake and never left (it felt like the longest labor in history)! Together, Zach and I fought contractions and impending labor until 35 weeks when he was showing signs of distress. In the end, labor was induced. Zachary was – and is – a tough little guy. He spent only one week in the NICU before he came home to Newcastle.

After seven weeks in the same confined space, leaving the hospital was overwhelming. I’ll never forget that first drive home. Everything looked just a little bit brighter, a little bit clearer.

This spring, my goal is to not take anything for granted. I get to actually see the tulips come up (and yes, the weeds too). I can’t wait to start my weekly stroller trips down to the Produce Stand. And as the weather continues to grow warmer, the boys and I will get to spend more time enjoying Newcastle’s parks and trails.

Spring is sometimes referred to as “the season of growth.” While our boys continue growing like weeds, there’s no other place I’d rather see them thrive than in Newcastle.

Jenny Martin is a full-time Mom, a part-time Music teacher, and a budding freelance writer.