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Friday, August 17, 2012

I can't be the only one

I can't be the only one who feels this way.

That story I just wrote, the one I felt so awesome about. It was rejected. Form letter. Standard fare. This is the fifth time this particular market has sent that letter to me. I don't think me and that market get along. Or rather, I might not understand what they want. Standard fare. It reminds me of that scene from The Princess Bride, for some reason.


"I do not think that word means what you think it means."


But, alas, you must move along, nothing to see here. I submitted the story again, somewhere else. Hope is the only universal liar who never loses his reputation for veracity.

I also wrote another shortie tonight. It's not fiction per se. It is what it is. I sent it off. I feel as though I shouldn't think very long on these things. Vomit them out and then put a bow on them and get them as far away from me as possible. That's the ticket. If this thing doesn't find a home I may just post it here. Maybe that's where I should have started.

I'm listening to Fleet Foxes. And then I will put on a few records and read about Marketing and Data Analysis, and I will sip a glass of red wine and I will have this serene, slightly bemused look on my face. There will be people who will stand at my window as I'm doing this and look in at me and be jealous as fuck. Their faces will be crimped in frustration. They'll say I wish I was in there by the fire (did I mention the fire?) and drinking that wine and reading those books and listening to those records. Is that Bookends? Is that CSN? Is that motherfucking Jimi Hendrix!? Where did this guy get such a wondrous record collection? These jealous people will ask these things.

But don't worry. I am not a cruel. I will open my door and I will say peek not at the window, Thomases. Come in, eat a minced pie (did I mention the pies? God, did I mention the pies?), warm your feet. Take that sour look off your face, my new friends, there's plenty for all of us. Listening is free. Reading is free. Talking is free. Let's talk. Let's warm. Let's listen. It's better that way, than peeking at the window. Sit in the firelight. 

Do not stand in the shadows.

Monday, August 13, 2012

You Lyed!

Just last week I wrote this whole thing about not liking short stories because I can't write them and being a sore loser and basically a total wet blanket. Well, scratch all that because I'm in love with short stories again.

Not exactly in love in love, but maybe dating again.

I was driving all by my lonesome and suddenly a little bitty story plopped right into my head fully formed, like a celestial baby from Mars and it did a little jig and I just knew I had to put that baby to beddie bye on a little white page in my computer. And I did.

The baby is pretty good, me thinks. More surreal than anything I've ever written before, but I think it's kinda funny, which is saying a lot for me, since I'm not funny. Ever. Not even a little bit.

But then there's this new baby and she's kinda funny. There's copious drugs and a talking bear that gives out hugs and a ghost that gives out nothing and a Vocoder that makes you sound like T Pain. It's great fun.

I'm getting very close to a momentous change in my life which I can't exactly talk about because there are a whole lot of moving parts and there are other people involved and because almost nothing about it can be pinned down with any certainty other than it's happening...sometime.

It's nice to have something to look forward to, even if it's a little like being a greyhound on a dog track, chasing a stuffed rabbit that always seems to stay just a little bit out of reach. I'll keep running though. I got me some stamina. I got me some drive. And I'm gonna git me some.