Category: Writing

  • The Nap Backfired!

    I just want to sleep forever somedays.

    I just took a fifteen-minute power nap, which normally does the truck of zapping me back to normal. But today, my nap back fired in my face.

    I didn’t get a great night of sleep, and I was up early as the kid needed to be at school early. Then there was alt side parking, and grocery shopping, and I made lunch for me and the wife.

    As I sat on the couch to eat with her; WOOSH! All my energy just sloughed off and out the door.

    Thus, I thought the power nap would do the trick.

    Now, I’m just sitting on my bed, forcing this out because I will stick to my… Habit? Routine? Goal? I can’t even think of the word that I want to use…

    Anyway… I just have the foggy head, and everything seems a little far out of reach.

    I am beginning to see that Mondays and Tuesdays are difficult days for me to do all the chores, blog, journal, write and read. Something has to give, and I always pick working on fiction as the disposable one.  I’m not sure what that says about me? Or if maybe it says nothing about me and I’m just over thinking everything? Should I forgive myself, and try again tomorrow? Or is this one of those “you only got one shot at this life, don’t waste it,” moments?

    I should do dishes and pick up the kid from school.

  • That Was A Fast Rejection

    So, I had a flurry of submissions that I sent out at the end of January. On the 31st of January to be exact. The month had flown by, and I had fallen behind on some projects, but I made a promise to myself that I was going to get submissions out before the end of the month. I sent out a handful, all to lit journals that I felt my work complimented. Just playing the game like a million other writers.

    I do appreciate that the readers and editors of these journals can get inundated with submissions, and though they try their best, it can take time before they are able to respond. (I once got an email from an editor apologizing for taking so long on my submission, and then a month later they rejected me.) Everyone wants an answer sooner than later, and I do like that some journals says that you should expect a response after three months… if not sooner.

    This afternoon I just received a rejection, after only nine days.

    They were fast; I do like that.

    It was substantially shorter than three months; I don’t like that.

    In all fairness, it’s a rather odd duck of a flash piece.

    See, I want to believe that there was a little bit of a debate over there. Like the reader is fighting for my piece, but the editor is holding strong that there really isn’t a place for my story in their publication, even though it is well written. Then other editors and readers start weighing in. The debate starts getting tense. Voices start rising. People are getting mad. Resignations are threatened; accusations of favoritism are made; mass chaos envelopes the office!

    But, then cooler heads prevail. Drinks are had; apologies given; laughs are shared; everyone starts talking about why they got into publishing in the first place; the power of words and ideas; given people opportunities to share their voices and insights. It’s a thankless job; always on the verge of collapse; no one makes any money.

    “We do this because we love it.” Someone says.

    Everyone agrees, and smiles.

    Then the managing editor adds, “But we got to reject that story.”

    “That’s true,” the reader agrees.

    “Send him the form letter of death!”

    They all start laughing…

    I guess what I’m saying is that if they would have held onto it for at least a month, then my ego wouldn’t be so bruised.

    But, rejection is part of the game.

  • Busy Day, and Submissions

    I only have fifteen minutes left to my part of the day, and I spent too much time doing laundry, and thinking about the mistakes I have made of late.

    I’m thinking it was a good day to be humbled.

    I’m also thinking that taking time for myself and not rushing things is more important than ever, and I should make a better effort.

    But, this is just the start of the week, and I still have time to make corrections.

    I do want to work no the online journal thing, and I am hung up on how to ask for submissions. I was planning on using Submittable, but they charge $85 a month for their service. A little too expensive for this idea, as I was looking to spend no start-up money on other than getting a URL. You know, onetime fees, not monthly stuff. Anyone out there have a suggestion on what platform to use for getting and organizing submissions?

    Anyway, I got dishes to do, a kid to pick up at school, homework, and talking to my dad. Don’t get me started on dinner.

    Maybe tomorrow…

  • ODDS and ENDS: Walking in the Rain, My Lit Mag Social Footprint, and Knit Blazers

    (You need more ABBA in your life)

    I got a super busy day today, and I’m only three and a half hours into it. Errands and things, you know. It’s so busy that I am writing this blog in the car as I do the Alt Side Parking dance. But what is complicating all of this is that it’s raining this morning. It’s a light rain, not that big of a deal except when it comes to one task; Walking the Dog. The dog hates the rain, and the dog won’t shit in the rain either. I know that this isn’t uncommon for most dogs, so I think many people out there will understand, but the walk still needs to happen. I’ll don all my rain gear, as will the dog. She’ll slow walk to the nearest scaffolding, as those covered places will give us the best odds for a successful movement. Yup, this is my life now. And did I mention that my dog smells awful to begin with? And that when she gets wet in the rain, her stench expands ten-fold? Did I not say that? Yeah…

    I posted a while ago about wanting to start an online lit mag/journal, and how I was trying to figure out what a good name would be. I don’t know if I’ll ever really do it, but it is a fun game that I am playing in my head. If I do do it, then there is an aspect that I am not looking forward to; and that’s the social media. Sure, maybe I’m over thinking it and trying to talk myself out of it, but I do feel that on a very basic level, to get people interested, there has to be a marketing element. You know, doing something the bring in the views… I’m not sure what that would be. Like hell am I making Tick-Toc videos. That leaves me with only one option that works on the internet, and that’s to just lie. Just lie about everything, and see if anyone notices.

    I wasted the last fifteen minutes of my writing time looking up men’s knit blazers on my phone. I need to work on the phone addiction.

  • Short Story Review: “Poor Houdini” by Anne Carson

    (The short story “Poor Houdini” by Anne Carson appeared in the January 29th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by Lauren Peters-Collaer

    Well, yeah!

    “Poor Houdini” by Anne Carson is the type of short story I love falling into. Why beat around the bush here; This is a fabulous story that happily reminded me how much fun it is to be engaged and enthralled by the ways a writer takes words, and language and plays with it, creating mood, atmosphere, and a lyrical mist which surrounds their story. I wasn’t sure what I was getting into with that first paragraph, but by the end I was ashamed that I wasn’t aware Anne Carson before today.

    I guess there is a through line of a story here; a female poet, romantic entanglements, a crow, the rescue of a woman from a collapsed balcony, and the writing of sonnets. Picking apart this story seems antithetical to what this story exudes; which is a sort of lived life that is filtered through a poet’s eyes, and their reactions to those events. And these events can and should be explored more, but I only have so much time.

    Because what grabbed me was the language and how it danced to life. “There is stillness after rain. Rank risings rise. Trees drip. Street lamps loom. Night takes on a polish, a pure power.” I know this feeling, this setting, and it’s as if I can touch it with my fingertips, yet it stays magically elusive. Carson weaves these words, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of melancholy, as this is a world of people looking for connections with each other, but nothing seems to land the way they want or expect. But they keep moving forward, not exactly flailing, but grasping – at least the poet does.

    I know that I am not doing the story justice, and this isn’t so much a “review”, as it is more a “gush.” I think part of my reaction to “Poor Houdini” is that it also brought up in me the memory of being young, in college, and the world was still able to be discovered, emotions could be surprisingly new, and it mattered to attempt to create something out of that jumble of life. I can’t completely put my finger on it, but it felt very close to what Anne Carson wrote.

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