Tag: Writers

  • Just Some General Bitching (Unedited)

    I’m having a hard time getting myself motivated. To do anything, really.

    Doesn’t help that I got two rejections in the last twenty-four hours. But this is part of the gig; Lots of rejection, and trying to not let it get to you. I’m at the point now where I am beginning to think that the story really isn’t that great. Or it needs a rewrite. Or maybe I just need to burn it and rid it’s presence from my life.

    The other thing is that I have spent the past hour catching up on my flash reading. I subscribe to a large number of online journals who email out flash fiction, and I have fallen behind of late, or the whole Summer. Anyway, I’m trying to get on top of it, and see what is worth reviewing. Nothing has been peaking my interest, and I started to think maybe it’s not the fiction, but me. Maybe my head isn’t in the right space for this.

    Time to take a break.

    More like changing gears, because here I am working on the blog. I have to get in my 1,000 words a day. (You know, it’s not so much writing as it is typing, and I think somewhere Truman Capote is laughing with me.) The only way to get better at something is practice. Practice! PRACTICE!

    As I sit here, I remember once, maybe back in college or sometime in my past, there was this writer complaining how much they hated blogs and bloggers. They said it was useless writing as all bloggers do is bitch about things in badly written ways. I don’t think writer was totally wrong.

    Yet, I feel that someone needs to sit down here and take a stand to say that some writing should just bitching, complaints, and listing of grievances. Isn’t bitching a form of expression?

    Sure, it would be better if I could string this expression in a clear narrative form, that has a well-defined beginning, middle, and end – with that end being a wonderful conclusion the initial thought. That would be nice and clean and concise.

    But life is messy and not clean, and sometimes this human experience is muddy, and gross, and undefined and rough and jagged. And uses bad grammar and has typos or type-o’s, or however one would spell that word.

    Sometimes you just got to get it off your chest to move on. And sometimes you want to scream into the void that a blog. A testament, a covenant that this moment existed, and was real, and had a value to no one else other than the person who wrote it.

    There you go.

  • Flash Fiction Review – “Two days after I died” by Justine Sweeney

    (The flash fiction story “Two days after I died” by Justine Sweeney was published on March 19th, 2026 at Milk Candy Review.)

    “Two days after I died” by Justine Sweeney is the type of flash piece that makes me love flash writers as they can be inventive and playful with this form, while at the same time making me ask, in a mischievous way, “What did I just read?”

    In “Two days after I dies” Justine Sweeny gives to us the character of a recently realized ghost. I love that this spirit is frantic and unhinged – tethered to this world, either unable or unwilling to leave it. Sweeny uses effectively simple techniques here; lack of capitalization, run-on sentences, and short words that make a choppy, staccato rhythm to the piece. What the writer creates is a spirit’s frenzied attempt to get all of these words out and tell us this self-perceived vitally important story. There is an anger to this ghost. A viciousness in her as she is annoyed that someone she doesn’t know well would dare post a personal reflection of her passing on social media. There is a hint at humor in the beginning, but as the fury builds, the tone begins to switch to an unhealthy bitterness which is out of proportion to the allegedly aggrieved crime. Take how the ghost lists all the offenses of this woman. Though the ghost sees the offenses as unforgivable transgressions, we start to feel a sense of jealousness in the comparison of their motherly actions. And when the twist arrives at the end, it lands with pity, and a disbelief that one, even in the afterlife, is so wrapped and warped in grievance, lacking the empathy to acknowledge that there is one person they cared about suffering in their mourning. But most haunting is how this ghost seems to lack even the slightest hint of remorse or regret that she is no longer with her children.

    Sweeney’s “Two days after I died” is a very short and compacted work, but it left me with wonderful questions to roll over in my head. Was the woman who posted on social media really affected to the degree that she claimed, or was it as the ghost suspected, a bit of online grief porn? Can one’s anger and bitterness make a person completely blind to their loved ones suffering? Can animosity and hostility follow us into the next world? Clearly, the theme was meant to apply to us in the here and now, but “Two days after I died” is a succinct rumination of the metaphysical possibility that a life lived unwell, will leave you emotionally untethered in spitefulness.

  • Short Story Review: “My Balenciaga” by Han Ong

    (The short story “My Balenciaga” by Han Ong appeared in the March 23rd, 2026 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Photograph by Harold Julian for The New Yorker

    I love the use of McGuffins as a plot device in storytelling. It gives instant motivation, and when used well, can give valued insight into a character’s constitution as they seek the MacGuffin. (In case you aren’t aware what a MacGuffin is, think of the Maltese Falcon, Ark of the Covenant or the Death Star plans.)  I would argue that the Balenciaga dress in Han Ong’s “My Balenciaga” is the same plot device, but used in a dramatic, rather that thriller/action, setting.

    The Balenciaga dress is owned by Lucy’s mother, who is a former fashion model from the Philippians. The mother received the dress many years ago while she was working as an international model, and confusingly, the dress does not contain a Balenciaga label in it, making its authenticity suspect. Lucy and her mother live with Lucy’s aunt on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and the three lead a pleasant life in the City. The mother still continues to wear the dress on special occasion out, such as going to the Met to watch an opera. After the death of Nora Aunor, a Philippine actress, which affect Lucy’s mother personally, things begin to change in their home. For Lucy, she changes her appearance and tries on the dress, which fits her well, and soon her personal and professional life begin to develop in positive ways. Yet there is still a question over the dress’ origination.

    This is a story that hits all of its marks; it is a very competent work. Yet, I never felt like anything was at stake for these characters, such as there was no emotional peril for Lucy or her mother. I believe that Han Ong was trying to create tension with the dress by playing with the idea of “The Value of Myth.” (You know, like in “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” or “Lisa the Iconoclast”) What is more important; the truth about the myth, or the truth the myth creates? No matter which side of this question is answered, I felt that the characters would essentially stay the same. Hence, no tension or peril.

    Perhaps the story was a little too long, spending more time telling rather than showing, so to speak. And, unfortunately, I think you could have taken the aunt out of the story, and it wouldn’t have changed anything. But, I did enjoy the character of Lucy, and found her journey in the story compelling; the search for connection with her mother. Which is why I see the Balenciaga dress as this story’s MacGuffin.

  • Guest Blogger: ChatGPT

    Today’s Topic: The Joy of Blogging

    “Blogging is, at its heart, an intimate conversation—a personal dialogue with the world that somehow feels both public and private. It has a unique place in the digital landscape, offering a freedom that no other medium quite captures. For me, blogging is much like sitting in a quiet coffee shop, composing thoughts that blend the personal with the universal, knowing that anyone could read them, but also savoring the chance that no one might. There’s a joy in that ambiguity.

    I’ve always found that writing, especially in a blog, allows for a certain reflection that we often lack in daily life. It’s not hurried or transactional like so much of our communication today. It’s meditative. Whether you’re writing about a movie, a book, a meal, or a fleeting thought that crossed your mind while walking the dog, blogging is a chance to organize and share those thoughts—messy, half-formed, or fully realized—on your own terms.

    And the beauty is in the process as much as the product. A blog isn’t constrained by deadlines or word counts. It’s your space, and that kind of freedom brings a remarkable sense of satisfaction. The rules of journalism don’t apply here, not in the same way, and there’s a refreshing informality about it. You can write about whatever interests you, in your own voice, and to an audience that is either wide and global or a handful of close readers.

    But it’s also about connection. Even though you’re writing from a solitary place, the real joy of blogging often emerges from the responses it provokes. A well-crafted post can spark a conversation in the comments section or spread across social media, finding resonance with people you’ll likely never meet. It’s that mix of introspection and outreach that makes blogging a uniquely fulfilling endeavor.

    In the end, blogging is about sharing your inner world, not with the aim of seeking approval, but with the simple hope that someone, somewhere, might understand. And that, to me, is the quiet joy of it all.“

    (This blog was an experiment with the free version of ChatGPT. The prompt that I used was “write a 350 word blog about the joy of blogging in the style of Roger Ebert,” and this was the result. I had tried several different prompts with ChatGPT on the subject of blogging, and for this response the most interesting, though I didn’t think it sounded much like Roger Ebert.)

  • Paul Auster (1947 – 2024)

    I read the news today that Paul Auster had passed away. Kind’a always thought that Paul Auster would just be hanging around forever. Somewhere in Brooklyn, scribbling away, and walking around. I don’t know if any of that is true, it’s just what I expected.

    I first read Paul Auster in 1997 or 1998, and the book was Hand to Mouth: A Chronicle of Early Failure. I’m not 100% sure how this book came to me, but I’m pretty sure it was a Christmas gift from my parents. Maybe I put it on a list, but for whatever reason, it was the right book at the right time. For you see, I had just dropped out of college to peruse my career as a writer/artist, and then I read this book, wherein Paul Auster is pretty much telling me that I have ten awful years of struggle, disappointment, and failure headed my way. But he told it is such a funny and depressing way that, for all the wrong reasons, this book inspired me to continue following my path in the arts. And also, to read as many books by Paul Auster as possible.

    I had hoped to have met him one day. Not to have a conversation, or tell him how much I enjoyed his work. No, I just wanted to say “hi” to him on the street, like neighbors. And that’s the other great thing that Paul gave to me; he presented New York City (Brooklyn, actually) as this great place to meet and make friends with people who are nothing like you. There are all kinds of great things about the City, that artists have been talking about for years (the arts, nightlife, money, danger, excitement, scandal…) but he always gave me this feeling that, yes those things are here, but the people of this place, these characters of the City, are what makes this place magical.

    The other thing that I loved about Paul Auster was that the guy just wrote all the time, and produced so much work. This is the “hard working American” side of me that still sees production as one of the measuring sticks of artistic excellence. He created nonstop. He tried things, and sure, maybe not all of it was The New York Trilogy, but I have respect for the people out there that keep trying something new and producing.

    So I guess, thanks Paul Auster. Thanks for trying to talk me out of being creative.