Tag: Writer

  • Pretty Much My Last Blog Post of 2023

    I think that will be true. We are getting down to crunch time for the Holidays; the kid will be off from school, and soon the wife will be taking her Christmas vacation from work. Then we do have some traditions around the City we like to take part in, so the time to blog is growing short. And as such, this might be the last one I write for the year.

    Not that anyone is asking for this, and I am talking to the couple of you who stop by this blog, but I’ll post a Best of 2023, as well as some Holiday videos for Christmas and New Year’s. Once the kid and wife are back in school, I will resume the normal blogging schedule.

    As for 2023, it wasn’t a bad year…

    On the writing front, I submitted to 50+ magazines, and got accepted in one. I had planned on sending out to 100, and only then did I hope that maybe I’d get a bite. So, I’ll chalk that up as a win. I have three stories out there that I am waiting to hear on, so I guess there is still hope. The blog readership grew this year, which was unexpected to say the least. Most days, I feel like I am talking to myself in the dark, and lets be honest, that’s a rather true description. Yet, I averaged 5 readers a day in 2022, and in 2023 that grew to 20. I’m sure there are some Russian bots in those numbers, but some of you are real. Also, looking at the numbers, if you stop by this blog, you’re reading the Short Story Reviews, and not many of the other things I write about. (I don’t get any likes for my Tottenham posts, but I’m still going to write about my club.) I will say this about the reviews, which is that I have read more short stories this year than any other year of my life. I have discovered many new online lit journals which are great, and most importantly, I have read so many great new writers. I could do a better job about promoting these journals and writers, and perhaps that should be a goal for myself in 2024. I was hesitant in 2023 as I was writing and submitting myself, and I had this idea that it could be considered a conflict of interest. Then I reminded myself that no one knows who I am, no one cares, so I should just relax.

    On the other personal fronts; my wife is good, the kid is healthy and doing well in school, and life in the City isn’t too bad. There will always be things that I need to work on so I can be a better husband and father, and friend, and son, and brother. I’ll still be pulling for the Dallas Cowboys to win the Super Bowl this year, and I would be happy with Tottenham just qualifying for the Champions League. Cubs are the Cubs, so I’ll be happy with a winning season. It would be good if I got back to sketching more, and maybe I should complete a book or some art project in 2024. Who knows…

    But, in the end, I would like to say thank you to the 20 of you, if you are real, who look at this thing each day. You do validate my existence, and that’s a pretty nice thing to do for someone. Especially when it’s a middle-aged guy still trying to figure things out and expressing… opinions about stuff. Anyway, I appreciate it.

    Have a good Holidays and I’ll talk to you soon.

  • Short Story Review: “According to Alice” by Sheila Heti

    (The short story “According to Alice” by Sheila Heti appeared in the November 20th, 2023 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by Janet Hansen

    At the very end of “According to Alice” by Sheila Heti, there is an addendum which states:

    This story was written in collaboration with a customizable chatbot on the Chai AI platform, which Sheila Heti started engaging in conversation early in the summer of 2022. To create the story, she asked the chatbot questions, some of them leading and others open-ended, to which its answers were never more than a sentence long. Sometimes she repeated a question to get a new answer. She removed her side of the conversation and threaded together the chatbot’s answers, at times cutting and tweaking for comprehension and flow.

    So… this is an experimental short story. I love experimental, crazy, envelope pushing, outta left field short stories that play with form, structure, tone, format, and everything else. I like people who take the rules and throw them out the window and try something new. Sometimes it works and it’s amazing; sometimes it’s a dumpster fire of awful; but most of the time it’s just okay, but I value the effort. When it comes to “According to Alice,” as an experiment, it’s pretty cool as it raises many questions about literature and writers interacting with AI; as a story – it’s not very good.

    On the Experiment Side of Things: I have several friends that are in WGA, and the AI issue was a big part of the strike, and still an issue of trepidation for them. No one knows how, or if, AI will be a helpful tool for writers. Some are looking for ways to use AI, while others want to chase it out of town. So, to see Heti engage with AI is intriguing to me. Though from the addendum, it sounds more like Heti behaved like an interviewer, editing down the responses to create the story. If that is true, does that make her an editor? Or is she more like a collage artist? (Donald Barthelme did call collage the art form of the 20th Century. Maybe it’s being extended to the 21st?) I also had to wonder what writers had been feed into Chai AI’s learning to create the prose? (Being that ChatGPT stole many authors books for its “learning.”) If other author’s books were used in Chai AI, does Heti need to share credit with them? Does Chai AI also deserve credit as the writer of this story along with Heti? Also, how much editing and rearranging was needed to create this story? I see why The New Yorker printed this story for its “AI Issue” as it raises many ethical questions, as well as makes me wonder how much can a writer use AI and still call it “their” story? In the end, what makes someone, or something a creator?

    On the Story Side of Things: Yeah, I didn’t find the story to be very compelling. Oh, it moved along at a clip, but it never felt like it was going anywhere. Before I found out that it was “written” by AI, I had this thought that the story felt like what a freshman English major would write if they were asked to create an absurdist/surrealist short story. Sure, it has some jabs at Christianity and the Patriarchy, but I could never tell if these were meant to be honest criticism, or more an attempt at making a joke. The story, not surprising, doesn’t feel like there is a heart in it. And the fact that the AI element was revealed at the end, leads me to believe that I was supposed to think a human “wrote” this, only to have it revealed that it was written in conjunction with AI. That’s kind’a gimmicky, if I’m going to be honest. And also goes back to the ethical aspect; when does the audience need to know that AI was involved with the creation of a story?

    What I am saying here is that, yes, you should read this story. I respect that Sheila Heti is the type of writer, and an artist, to tackle AI, and see if there is a way for writers to use it. That does take courage, because as far as I know, she is the first person to give something like this a try. The end result isn’t the best, but if literature is going to continue to grow and explore as an art form, then experiments like this are needed.

  • Checked That Box

    For those of you that read this blog, and follow me on Twitter/X (all two of you), then you know that I had an announcement yesterday, which was that Rejection Letters published a piece of mine – “Memorably Forgettable.” I have been a fan of this journal for a while, and I really appreciate that they included me in their publication; very cool.

    And as such, I checked off a box on my list of goals for this year – Get One Story Accepted.

    I was prepared to get deep in rejections for this year, as I have received 50 of them so far. I do prescribe to the “100 No’s Before 1 Yes” theory, and as such still feel like there is a lot of rejection out there for me to receive yet. (My Submittable cup runneth over…)

    But, more importantly, I gotta get back to work. I still got a blog to write, a journal to fill up, and a corner in my apartment to sit in and try to make some stories work. And I should be reading more, to be honest.

  • Post #1001

    Yesterday, I wrote my 1,000th blog post.

    When I started posting way back in 2017, I was a new father who was working a very stressful job, and I needed a creative outlet of some sort to keep me sane, and also to make me feel like I wasn’t giving up on me. The goal way back then was to write 250 words about a subject; any subject would do, just as long as I wrote 250 words.

    In that first year, I did a grand total of 11 posts.

    Followed by 105 posts in 2018.

    Then I backslid in 2019 with 67.

    But I came back in 2020 with 143 post. Sure, COVID and being unemployed played a big part in my increase in output.

    All in all, I have written 339,000+ words for this blog, and I have kept my sanity by being able to accomplish something each day. I like to think I am being creative still, and clearly a good number of you come by to read the short story reviews, which I appreciate.

    I also appreciate the solid core of early followers; all five of you – two of whom I do know personally – who took the time to read and like what I was doing.

    I didn’t know what I was doing when I started; I still don’t know what I’m doing, and I probably won’t know what I am doing when all is said and done.

    I am also aware that virtually no one will read this, and most likely I’m just talking to myself here. For that matter, I should rewrite my bio, and do a site redesign… I need new pictures, too.

    I don’t say this enough, but you should “like” my blog, and follow it. Also, you should leave comments, and click on the ads.

    While we’re at it, someone should offer me a job – writing reviews or editing at journal. To be honest, someone should publish my stories and offer me a book deal.

    But for the time being, I’m going back to reading some flash fiction (I’m really enjoying SmokeLong Quarterly currently) and crank out some new pieces.

  • Retired Flash Fiction Story

    (This is an experiment of a flash fiction story that I decided to retire from submitting. Enjoy.)

    Airbag

    There was light, and then there was darkness. Maybe there was sound, but I think all I can remember hearing was the fear in my brain; As I was scared. Or was I screaming? Broken glass? I think so, and if that was true, then I don’t know how I didn’t get cut up. I hit my head, and banged up my back. There wasn’t any blood that you’d expect.

    What existed after, most likely before if only I had paid attention, was the feeling of floating, up and away – of relief that I was here and not in some other place, even though no rational person would want to be where I was, and that’s because they weren’t fully/completely aware of being alive in this reality, but now, or at least then – in the aftermath – I was present.

    When I was a child, growing up in the Cold War, knowing that at any second one of two nations could blow up the whole world; so many people lived in the pool of existential threat every day. Life could end at the push of a button, as that was modernity. But what I fixated on wasn’t necessarily that all life could end, but having to wait for it to end. Being told the missile was on the way, that in a matter of minutes I would be evaporated, but I had to wait for my impending death. That count down is what scared me. Sure, if you knew you had one day left, then you could get some stuff done. But with five minutes – I would just be left with my thoughts. My awful thoughts. Even if I tried to be constructive with my five minutes, I’d most likely use four of the minutes deciding what to do, and that last minute wouldn’t be enough time to accomplish it. But I know me, and I would spend five minutes kicking myself for all the things I didn’t do. Hating myself as the doom, the bomb, the endless end drew nearer. Not enjoying what I had, but regretting what was.

    The darkness did give way to the light once again. I opened my eyes. I looked around and made sure I was alive. On the side of a highway, having spun around, I was alive. Excitable, juiced, sweating yet cold. The Universe had expanded, only to contract back to the same place, and I was still there. The blue gray interstate, an airbag deflating – I had the acknowledgement of time.