Most people in the publishing world scoff at blogging. To them, anyone can blog. Translation: the entire community lacks talent. The single positive thing publishers see in a blog is a built-in audience. Think Tucker Max and Stephanie Klein, two bloggers who received book offers based solely on their blogs. Anyway, this shortsighted view about blogging probably explains why the publishing industry is in the shitter.
While I don’t post here with the regularity I once did, I still see the value of blogging. It’s because of Life Goes On, I Think that I have friends in Denver and DC, San Francisco and South Carolina. My writing would have never improved the way it did and I would have never had the courage to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing were it not for this blog. Both professionally and personally, blogging has been nothing but positive.
Over the last few months I have submitted my work to multiple literary journals, all of my activity noted in my Duotrope tracker. So far I have had four pieces rejected. It feels like being picked last off the wall. It feels like not being asked to the high school prom. But all of this rejection is necessary because having your work published in recognized literary journals means having an easier time landing an agent, so on and so forth. Tedious doesn’t even begin to describe the process.
Luckily, on the writing front, things haven’t all been doom and gloom. As a matter of fact, I had not one but two essays recently published. And both opportunities stemmed from my presence as a blogger. Indie Ink, an artist collaborative founded by Stacy Campbell, spotlighted one of my essays (previously posted here) in early August. And Peter DeWolf put together an anthology capturing summer and it included my original essay Land of the Midnight Sun. Both are impressive projects I’m incredibly proud to be a part of.
Earlier this week I received a copy of The Sycamore Review, the result of paying $15 to submit a story to their recent contest. In the literary world, this prestigious journal probably ranks just behind The Paris Review. Remember those small books you had as kid that you could fan the pages and see action happening? Yeah, well, that’s how I perused my copy of The Sycamore Review. When I was done, I tossed it in the recycling bin. Then I opened my computer, loaded my Google reader and spent an hour or so catching up on some of the blogs I follow. As expected, pure delight. You guys never cease to amaze me.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
End Scene
Standing in the check-out line, clutching a carton of grapefruit juice, a dozen large brown eggs and an apple, you recall that time he took a bite of the Golden Delicious you had packed as mid-flight sustenance. It was meant to tie you over while relocating to the left coast for a weekend together. But sprawled out atop the hotel bed, you plucked the apple from your tote and tossed it in his direction. He took such a generous bite that two seeds fell from the core and landed on his lap.
“You can put your stuff down,” the woman in front of you says as she sets a plastic divider on the belt.
You look up and sense your lips straining from smiling at this outdated image, two years and countless snubs failing to tarnish the memory. And so, to distract yourself from this ghost that still haunts you, you spend the next five minutes gnawing on the inside of your cheek while carefully arranging and rearranging your three items on the belt. You seriously consider abandoning your purchase. You evaluate the logistics of walking out the door empty handed. As if leaving the apple will leave behind the memory. But you stay put, passing off a $20 bill in exchange for food you no longer want.
Around twice a year, once in response to something he did and the other in response to something he failed to do, you find yourself making sense. “If you really want something,” you start, pausing to take a breath before delivering the punch-line, “you make it happen.” It’s a statement meant for both of you to see the light.
You list examples he can personally relate to, understand: running marathons and building a business from nothing.
Then you start listing examples you can personally relate to: going back to school in your thirties and segueing careers during a recession.
He always concedes common sense but continues to disappear, fall off into the great wide abyss. To your friends you call him a selfish asshole. To yourself you hope he’ll resurface. Which he does, acknowledging Thanksgiving and New Years, though forgetting your birthday. When you least expect it, he proposes a weekend together. And when you absolutely expect it, he hesitates.
Every morning when you leave your house and every evening when you get home, you consult your Magic 8-Ball and welcome the positive responses. Eating a frozen dinner with the Real Housewives of DC airing, you recall the two psychics who noted his indecision would last three years. You, an almost-atheist, find comfort in this statistic explained by Mercury in retrograde. Using both hands, you count the passed time and trust your destiny is about to unfold.
It doesn’t. Or maybe it does, just not how you had once hoped. Like an Indian giver, he rescinds an invitation. Like a child, he does so via email. Three years, you think, three years, seven months and fourteen days warrants a phone call. You kick and scream, reason and rationalize. Then you throw a hail Mary pass that unsettles your balance and sours your stomach. Hours pass, days drag on, and he says nothing.
Three weeks later you find yourself standing in the grocery line holding a bottle of champagne, a container of strawberries and yogurt. You pay the cashier, set the bag on the floor of the backseat and drive out to the road. At home you pour a drink. At dinner you laugh with friends. And in the shower, as you drag the dull blade against your calf, you realize you no longer think about him. No memories are jogged, no hopeful wants trip across your tongue. That’s when you know it’s over.
You step out of the shower and dry off, glancing at your reflection as you q-tip your ears. Half-dressed, for the umpteenth time, you reach to delete his contact information from your phone, your address book, your memory. Except this time, for the first time ever, you know it will stick. So that’s exactly what you do, delete. Then you grab an apple out of the fridge, take a bite and test yourself.
Three years, you think. Three years. Damn this Braeburn is tasty.
“You can put your stuff down,” the woman in front of you says as she sets a plastic divider on the belt.
You look up and sense your lips straining from smiling at this outdated image, two years and countless snubs failing to tarnish the memory. And so, to distract yourself from this ghost that still haunts you, you spend the next five minutes gnawing on the inside of your cheek while carefully arranging and rearranging your three items on the belt. You seriously consider abandoning your purchase. You evaluate the logistics of walking out the door empty handed. As if leaving the apple will leave behind the memory. But you stay put, passing off a $20 bill in exchange for food you no longer want.
Around twice a year, once in response to something he did and the other in response to something he failed to do, you find yourself making sense. “If you really want something,” you start, pausing to take a breath before delivering the punch-line, “you make it happen.” It’s a statement meant for both of you to see the light.
You list examples he can personally relate to, understand: running marathons and building a business from nothing.
Then you start listing examples you can personally relate to: going back to school in your thirties and segueing careers during a recession.
He always concedes common sense but continues to disappear, fall off into the great wide abyss. To your friends you call him a selfish asshole. To yourself you hope he’ll resurface. Which he does, acknowledging Thanksgiving and New Years, though forgetting your birthday. When you least expect it, he proposes a weekend together. And when you absolutely expect it, he hesitates.
Every morning when you leave your house and every evening when you get home, you consult your Magic 8-Ball and welcome the positive responses. Eating a frozen dinner with the Real Housewives of DC airing, you recall the two psychics who noted his indecision would last three years. You, an almost-atheist, find comfort in this statistic explained by Mercury in retrograde. Using both hands, you count the passed time and trust your destiny is about to unfold.
It doesn’t. Or maybe it does, just not how you had once hoped. Like an Indian giver, he rescinds an invitation. Like a child, he does so via email. Three years, you think, three years, seven months and fourteen days warrants a phone call. You kick and scream, reason and rationalize. Then you throw a hail Mary pass that unsettles your balance and sours your stomach. Hours pass, days drag on, and he says nothing.
Three weeks later you find yourself standing in the grocery line holding a bottle of champagne, a container of strawberries and yogurt. You pay the cashier, set the bag on the floor of the backseat and drive out to the road. At home you pour a drink. At dinner you laugh with friends. And in the shower, as you drag the dull blade against your calf, you realize you no longer think about him. No memories are jogged, no hopeful wants trip across your tongue. That’s when you know it’s over.
You step out of the shower and dry off, glancing at your reflection as you q-tip your ears. Half-dressed, for the umpteenth time, you reach to delete his contact information from your phone, your address book, your memory. Except this time, for the first time ever, you know it will stick. So that’s exactly what you do, delete. Then you grab an apple out of the fridge, take a bite and test yourself.
Three years, you think. Three years. Damn this Braeburn is tasty.
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