Writing and Judgement

I wrote a story three days before New Years' in an attempt to just do something and finish something even if it amounted to just a "fart in the breeze" as most of my zealous endeavors have amounted to lately. I finished the story and described it to my partner as "a real misanthropic wrist-slitter"-- a distasteful peice, something I wanted to shake off. But I had this feeling that the readers at Glimmer Train . . I just had this feeling. Anyway, it was a finalist. That's nice, but the story is a mess technically. Words are actually missing. I was so deep in my funk when I wrote it that the really embarassing "their" instead of "there" and its/it's stuff is wrong. I suppose I'm just kind of confused. We all do want to make sense of what happens to us, to follow the "if . . .then" clause because it's just too difficult to continue to function otherwise. I think I feel pleased, but a little apprehensive that maybe It's True: that valuable/honored literature is mired in the hopeless dismantling of what we think we see, and not filled with the joy and optimism that we all so desperately need.
It's probably just a story. It fit together reasonably well. It got lucky. So it goes.