Here’s my life in extreme excesses, starting with my most relevant literary exercises, since this is a blog about writing and all. Don’t worry, I’ll mention Paris too.
In the past 2 weeks, ninety-five percent of every literary publication to which I submitted work during the 4th quarter of 2015 has finally acknowledged my creative incompetence. I’ll spare you the verbiage, but every one of these rejection letters includes the word “sorry.” You know what I’m sorry about right now? Yeah, me neither. But I’ll think of something.
To give creds where creds are due, here are the esteemed journals which recognized my non-talent during the past 14 days: A Public Space rejected Quittin’ Time; The Bastille rejected The Switch *and I quote, the editors were divided on this; Berkeley Fiction Review rejected Finish What You Start; The Adirondack Review rejected Choices; and NANO Fiction rejected Catching Up With the Folks, although to be fair, I went over the word count in my special self-sabotaging way, which they pointed out, regretfully.
Oh, but I almost forgot! I’m not a total failure. The stories I’ve written so far in this calendar year 2016 are gaining traction. I guess the experts were right about that Practice Makes Perfect thing. Most significantly, a short story I finalized in February, “Dinner at the Club” was Long-Listed in the Mogford Literary Prize for Food and Drink Fiction. That means it was ranked in the top 16 entries out of over 600, and it will be available in a chapbook with others from the Long List. So. Shit.
I’m busy in 2016 stitching together my book of short stories, Guns of the Borough. To make it into my collection, the piece must A. be written by moi, B. take place in the
fictional Borough, C. contain a firearm, D. receive three or more rejections, E. marinate six months, and F. pass The Bestie Test. The last requirement isn’t that difficult, to be honest, since The Bestie loves everything I do, as long as I keep reminding her that she’s as beautiful as Marion Cotillard and as hilarious as Tina Fey.
I’m still on hiatus from writing my novel, although the characters continue to grow and develop, the plot thickens, and I’m now able to look at my opening pages with deeper perspective. This means I will eventually try another re-write. For now, I’ll continue to formally study the craft, art, logic and science of writing. I’ll continue to practice with short stories, and continue to celebrate my rejection letters. Because I’m telling you, I. Am. Improving.
House of Cards
I binged. The Bestie binged too, except she binged harder than I binged.
It's that time.
Yep, cancer’s a bitch. The only thing worse than going through cancer is watching your kid go through cancer. Fuck that jawn. But if you require a more positive outlook, click here.
Located at 22 rue des Ecouffes (Le Marais), Miznon is a petit slice of kosher heaven offering gourmet pitas and fresh vegetables prepared in front of your very eyes with a magical touch. My favorite specialty kebabs include beef bourguignon, chicken salad, spicy fish, and lamb meatballs. Don’t even try to get out of there without gobbling up their famous roasted cauliflower or marinated green beans. I ate at Miznon an embarrassing number of times in the past month. I even ate there on Easter Sunday, which makes me especially holy.
I just thought of something I’m sorry for. I tried to recreate that damn roasted cauliflower in my own kitchen and failed something miserable. No, wait. I’m sorry for every loud American tourist on the Paris Metro. Oh! And I’m sorry that the Montgomery County, Pennsylvania child support system is so catastrophically ignorant.