Larst night (that 'r' is there on purpose), I went to that birthday party at that place with those Monday night food deals and tried to ignore that thing that insists it's a thing. I try to tell myself it's not a thing, but it's a thing for me and that's probably the worst part--that it will never be a thing elsewhere. Gah. I do go on.
I had nearly two pitchers of beer and a shot that tasted like applesauce. Other people ordered food, including the object of all that birthday affection, so I ordered food too. I met people I want to meet again, which is saying something, I think, about how much time I spend away from people in general. I collected some phrases and then lost them in all the drinking. These people want to sing for a living. Most of them are teaching. It sounds just like everything else. They sang to the birthday boy. It was the least they could do.
I'm almost finished with the best story I've ever written. Me saying that means nothing. Don't listen to me when I say things like that. I don't have to tell you. You know.
I said I wouldn't make this a rejection blog, but it turns out I like having something to share. I received another rejection that was promising. I sent a story to a very specialized online literary magazine, and in my egotistical imaginings, I saw it having a home there. They rightly pointed out that the story was a good story, but not good for what they were specifically trying to do. Duh. A total beginner's mistake. It will find a home somewhere with a fireplace and a view of the trees.
I have a story out there being read AS WE SPEAK. That's kind of horrifying, knowing that. The internet has powers it uses for all sorts of evil. Knowing when your submissions are being read is sick. You check your email even more than you already do. You worry that this story will be accepted and you'll have to explain to people that while it mirrors certain parts of reality, it is fiction, in the end. I mean, I haven't had to explain that to anyone yet, but this story might be the one.
Last night, all these fancy singers tried to get me to talk about my writing. If I can make a bad music joke, it was the one sour note of the evening. Ha. Ha. I hate talking about writing. It's like talking about an ex. You love it, you hate it, you want everyone to know, you want to keep it a secret, you want to know what sort of perverse fascination people have with your inner life anyway. Then you think, usually too late, it's a good thing people even care to ask. Give them what they want. They may never ask for it again.
Also last night, I almost told this girl she looked like a young Sissy Spacek. I wasn't sure if she'd be offended or flattered, so I miraculously kept my drunken mouth shut.
That's about enough of all that.
I had nearly two pitchers of beer and a shot that tasted like applesauce. Other people ordered food, including the object of all that birthday affection, so I ordered food too. I met people I want to meet again, which is saying something, I think, about how much time I spend away from people in general. I collected some phrases and then lost them in all the drinking. These people want to sing for a living. Most of them are teaching. It sounds just like everything else. They sang to the birthday boy. It was the least they could do.
I'm almost finished with the best story I've ever written. Me saying that means nothing. Don't listen to me when I say things like that. I don't have to tell you. You know.
I said I wouldn't make this a rejection blog, but it turns out I like having something to share. I received another rejection that was promising. I sent a story to a very specialized online literary magazine, and in my egotistical imaginings, I saw it having a home there. They rightly pointed out that the story was a good story, but not good for what they were specifically trying to do. Duh. A total beginner's mistake. It will find a home somewhere with a fireplace and a view of the trees.
I have a story out there being read AS WE SPEAK. That's kind of horrifying, knowing that. The internet has powers it uses for all sorts of evil. Knowing when your submissions are being read is sick. You check your email even more than you already do. You worry that this story will be accepted and you'll have to explain to people that while it mirrors certain parts of reality, it is fiction, in the end. I mean, I haven't had to explain that to anyone yet, but this story might be the one.
Last night, all these fancy singers tried to get me to talk about my writing. If I can make a bad music joke, it was the one sour note of the evening. Ha. Ha. I hate talking about writing. It's like talking about an ex. You love it, you hate it, you want everyone to know, you want to keep it a secret, you want to know what sort of perverse fascination people have with your inner life anyway. Then you think, usually too late, it's a good thing people even care to ask. Give them what they want. They may never ask for it again.
Also last night, I almost told this girl she looked like a young Sissy Spacek. I wasn't sure if she'd be offended or flattered, so I miraculously kept my drunken mouth shut.
That's about enough of all that.