I received my first rejection letter with ink today from Michigan Quarterly Review. For those of you not privy to the ins and outs of seeking publication, this is extremely rare. Most often writers get form rejection letters that basically say, "Thanks for submitting, but your work sucks." Perhaps not quite so harsh, but you get my drift. The worst rejection I ever received said, "Dear Poet. Thanks for your work, but we can't publish this." I think most of you know I don't write poetry.
The problem is, I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to take this handwritten note. It's a 4x6 inch post card with the address of the journal on the top and some typewritten text. The first part says, "The editors regret that the enclosed material does not suit the current needs of Michigan Quarterly Review." (Pretty standard). Then, there is a second, long paragraph that basically says a lot of people don't know what the journal wants, so you should buy a copy.
Well, the second paragraph is crossed out on my letter. Underneath is written: "Thanks! All best - KJ."
I can take this is one of two ways. My work is so god awful, KJ doesn't even want me reading her journal. She wants me to forget the mag even exists.
Conversely, KJ thinks I know what they want and I was this close to getting my story published. Since I am so close to being published in this prestigious journal, she (it's feminine handwriting) wants to save me the $4.00 a back issue will cost.
I'm choosing to think the latter because it makes me feel like I'm getting closer to the Grail. Many of you may be thinking KJ is just trying to be nice, but no one cares what you think.
To hedge some comments- yes. I'm this obsessive when it comes to dating, too.
So - the panic of the weekend has subsided and it's back to work for this fictionista.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
A Northern Transplant Comments On The South: Part 1
Whenever one moves from a town she has known her entire life to a new location a thousand miles away, she expects to confront the unknown. My mom gave me the idea to start cataloging some of my more unusual encounters as an Ohio native in the Deep South. I hope you all enjoy.
I am sure at some point I will discuss the communication problems, traffic jams, and the lax customer service that I've dealt with in Baton Rouge, but today's blog revolves around a problem I never expected to encounter - finding an item in the grocery store.
I know that those of you with families go to the grocery store armed with a list of necessary items, so it may shock you to know that there are people like me. When I go to the store, I have a mental list of the things I absolutely must have - bread, milk, string cheese, nuts - but I wing everything else. I never know what I am going to want to eat until I am there, so I often plan meals on the fly.
So, today, imagine my excitement when I saw fresh scallops for sale at the seafood counter of Albertson's. I bought half a pound and decided to cook up an Italian/Greek fusion dish that I like to make (only with scallops instead of shrimp). I strolled back to produce for peppers and onions and only needed two more items - olive oil and artichoke hearts (they do not have any fresh artichokes at Albertson's, so don't start judging me, foodie snobs).
Now let me pause here and describe a Midwest grocery store. There are your usual sections - Dairy, Meat, Produce, etc. We also have a generically labeled aisle called "Ethnic." Here, you'll find seperate sections for Italian, Mexican, Kosher, Mediterranean (which includes all geographic locations from India to Egypt) and Asian (which includes, you guessed it, the entirety of Asia). These categories are, admittedly, borderline offensive, but if you need olive oil, you know it won't be anywhere near the refried beans.
Back to Baton Rouge. I stroll over to where the spaghetti sauce and noodles are held. No olive oil. A friendly employee, seeing my confusion, asked if I could use a hand. I told him I needed olive oil and artichoke hearts, and he helpfully said, "Well you're in the right area."
Thanks. So the olive oil wasn't near the "Italian" food, so I decided to look by the dressings. Nothing. How about in the baking aisle next to the Canola and Vegetable oils? Wrong again. I started systematically walking up and down the aisles until I found what I needed - next to the cereal.
I shit you not, dear readers. Olive oil, artichoke hearts, some random noodles, and biscotti mix were right next to Cap'N Crunch.
I know you do not need to be an experienced cook to manage a grocery store, but I assume that whoever runs Albertson's has, at one point in his or her life, eaten a meal. Let me ask you this - have any of you... EVER... said after eating a bowl of cereal, "You know, that was good, but next time instead of milk - I'm going to dump some olive oil on this shit."
I presume your answer is the same as mine: Gross!!
And before you think I'm spoiled by Midwestern conveniences, let me assure you that I have shopped for groceries in a plethora of cities including Rome (one of the most illogical cities I've ever been in), and I have never once had trouble finding something.
I still haven't figured out what it is that makes this place so counterintuitive, but I plan on exploring this for the next few years. All I can say is that this place will keep me on my toes.
I am sure at some point I will discuss the communication problems, traffic jams, and the lax customer service that I've dealt with in Baton Rouge, but today's blog revolves around a problem I never expected to encounter - finding an item in the grocery store.
I know that those of you with families go to the grocery store armed with a list of necessary items, so it may shock you to know that there are people like me. When I go to the store, I have a mental list of the things I absolutely must have - bread, milk, string cheese, nuts - but I wing everything else. I never know what I am going to want to eat until I am there, so I often plan meals on the fly.
So, today, imagine my excitement when I saw fresh scallops for sale at the seafood counter of Albertson's. I bought half a pound and decided to cook up an Italian/Greek fusion dish that I like to make (only with scallops instead of shrimp). I strolled back to produce for peppers and onions and only needed two more items - olive oil and artichoke hearts (they do not have any fresh artichokes at Albertson's, so don't start judging me, foodie snobs).
Now let me pause here and describe a Midwest grocery store. There are your usual sections - Dairy, Meat, Produce, etc. We also have a generically labeled aisle called "Ethnic." Here, you'll find seperate sections for Italian, Mexican, Kosher, Mediterranean (which includes all geographic locations from India to Egypt) and Asian (which includes, you guessed it, the entirety of Asia). These categories are, admittedly, borderline offensive, but if you need olive oil, you know it won't be anywhere near the refried beans.
Back to Baton Rouge. I stroll over to where the spaghetti sauce and noodles are held. No olive oil. A friendly employee, seeing my confusion, asked if I could use a hand. I told him I needed olive oil and artichoke hearts, and he helpfully said, "Well you're in the right area."
Thanks. So the olive oil wasn't near the "Italian" food, so I decided to look by the dressings. Nothing. How about in the baking aisle next to the Canola and Vegetable oils? Wrong again. I started systematically walking up and down the aisles until I found what I needed - next to the cereal.
I shit you not, dear readers. Olive oil, artichoke hearts, some random noodles, and biscotti mix were right next to Cap'N Crunch.
I know you do not need to be an experienced cook to manage a grocery store, but I assume that whoever runs Albertson's has, at one point in his or her life, eaten a meal. Let me ask you this - have any of you... EVER... said after eating a bowl of cereal, "You know, that was good, but next time instead of milk - I'm going to dump some olive oil on this shit."
I presume your answer is the same as mine: Gross!!
And before you think I'm spoiled by Midwestern conveniences, let me assure you that I have shopped for groceries in a plethora of cities including Rome (one of the most illogical cities I've ever been in), and I have never once had trouble finding something.
I still haven't figured out what it is that makes this place so counterintuitive, but I plan on exploring this for the next few years. All I can say is that this place will keep me on my toes.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
A Case of the Nasties
I am always telling my students that the most important part of the writing process is revision, and, unlike most of the things I tell my students, this I actually believe. For those of us on the creative side of the biz, we have these nifty things called workshops where we get together with a bunch of other writers and have them tell us what is wrong with the story (or poem) that we have spent days, weeks, months agonizing over. Imagine sitting in a room with your grandmothers and all of your aunts and having them give you relationship advice. You laugh, you cry, you contemplate running from the room, screaming and crying and saying, "I promise never, ever to offend the world with my tripe again."
Okay. I jest. Workshops are really not that bad. In fact, some members of a workshop group will tell you that, no matter what crap you stick on a page, you are a "great writer." After having your story reviewed by one of these people, you'll feel like Raymond Carver and Alice Munro's love child. You will leave smiling, happy, and absolutely in love with yourself.
You also won't revise a word of your story and will, thus, have just wasted the past two hours.
Even more destructive to revision, though, are the folks on the opposite end of the spectrum. I've dubbed these people the "Nasties." You feminists out there will no doubt be thinking to yourself, "I bet she's talking about rich, white men! They're always trying to silence unique voices for fear of losing their hegemony." You silly ladies will be wrong, though. Nasties are just as often women.
While you can't spot them in a crowd, it's also hard to figure out what makes Nasties tick. Some of them are self-proclaimed geniuses who think they have all of the answers about modern art and that there is no point in anyone else writing because they are the Voice of the Modern Age. Just as often, though, the Nasties will be closet cutters who hate themselves, hate their work, and can only deal with their self-loathing by putting other people down.
No matter their motivation, Nasties are condescending, mean, and will have absolutely nothing positive to say about your story. Ever. Their criticisms generally go something like this: "Mr. Fitzgerald, I have to say you have a lot of work to do on this first chapter. I found myself nodding off on the first page. Nick Carraway is a snob, and it doesn't help that he says he's a snob - I still don't like him. Plus - who's that self-aware anyway? I mean, good grief 'In consequence, I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores'? Who talks like that? And let's move on to this obsession he has with this Gatsby character. Is Nick gay? He must be. He says of Gatsby, 'there was something gorgeous about him.' You know gay lit doesn't generally do well here in America. I don't know, Scott. I'd rework this whole thing. You have a snobbish character who reads like a cliche to me - rich, but moral, Midwest boy moves East and is shocked and appalled by the behavior of the people he meets? I've read this story a million times before. I don't know about you, but in the first creative writing class I took, the great Professor Smith told me to think of unique voices and tell their stories. I don't like to bring up my own work, but this is what I'm trying to do in my novel Herman Melville Loved Whales. I mean I modernized the epic Moby Dick and narrated from the perspective of a nine-year-old paraplegic Siamese boy...."
And you must sit there, quietly,nod and listen to every word that comes out of their mouths because in a writer's workshop, the author can't speak, can't defend, because it skews the opinion of the reviewers. You can only sit there and hope and pray that the next person will have something positive to say.
If the next person has nodded off and the Nasty is the last person who you heard speak, you will leave the workshop ready to burn everything you've ever written. Because, while logically you will understand that you should give little import to what the Nasties say because they're mad, it will be the only thing you will be able to think about for the next few days. You won't sleep, you won't eat, you'll just sit there and reread your work and think, "That metaphor is terrible, this character is stupid, and the setting... Christ! What right do I have to be writing?" You won't actually be able to revise anything because you've lost all hope that you can string words together to create a sentence that makes any bit of sense at all.
In my experience, the Nasties are, thankfully, few and far between, and workshopping has improved my writing more than anything else. When they do come, all you can do is grin through the pain and drink a big cocktail. For a few days, you'll think of all the nasty things you'll say when their story comes up, but, of course, you will not stoop to their level. Because, unlike them, your momma raised you right!
Okay. I jest. Workshops are really not that bad. In fact, some members of a workshop group will tell you that, no matter what crap you stick on a page, you are a "great writer." After having your story reviewed by one of these people, you'll feel like Raymond Carver and Alice Munro's love child. You will leave smiling, happy, and absolutely in love with yourself.
You also won't revise a word of your story and will, thus, have just wasted the past two hours.
Even more destructive to revision, though, are the folks on the opposite end of the spectrum. I've dubbed these people the "Nasties." You feminists out there will no doubt be thinking to yourself, "I bet she's talking about rich, white men! They're always trying to silence unique voices for fear of losing their hegemony." You silly ladies will be wrong, though. Nasties are just as often women.
While you can't spot them in a crowd, it's also hard to figure out what makes Nasties tick. Some of them are self-proclaimed geniuses who think they have all of the answers about modern art and that there is no point in anyone else writing because they are the Voice of the Modern Age. Just as often, though, the Nasties will be closet cutters who hate themselves, hate their work, and can only deal with their self-loathing by putting other people down.
No matter their motivation, Nasties are condescending, mean, and will have absolutely nothing positive to say about your story. Ever. Their criticisms generally go something like this: "Mr. Fitzgerald, I have to say you have a lot of work to do on this first chapter. I found myself nodding off on the first page. Nick Carraway is a snob, and it doesn't help that he says he's a snob - I still don't like him. Plus - who's that self-aware anyway? I mean, good grief 'In consequence, I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores'? Who talks like that? And let's move on to this obsession he has with this Gatsby character. Is Nick gay? He must be. He says of Gatsby, 'there was something gorgeous about him.' You know gay lit doesn't generally do well here in America. I don't know, Scott. I'd rework this whole thing. You have a snobbish character who reads like a cliche to me - rich, but moral, Midwest boy moves East and is shocked and appalled by the behavior of the people he meets? I've read this story a million times before. I don't know about you, but in the first creative writing class I took, the great Professor Smith told me to think of unique voices and tell their stories. I don't like to bring up my own work, but this is what I'm trying to do in my novel Herman Melville Loved Whales. I mean I modernized the epic Moby Dick and narrated from the perspective of a nine-year-old paraplegic Siamese boy...."
And you must sit there, quietly,nod and listen to every word that comes out of their mouths because in a writer's workshop, the author can't speak, can't defend, because it skews the opinion of the reviewers. You can only sit there and hope and pray that the next person will have something positive to say.
If the next person has nodded off and the Nasty is the last person who you heard speak, you will leave the workshop ready to burn everything you've ever written. Because, while logically you will understand that you should give little import to what the Nasties say because they're mad, it will be the only thing you will be able to think about for the next few days. You won't sleep, you won't eat, you'll just sit there and reread your work and think, "That metaphor is terrible, this character is stupid, and the setting... Christ! What right do I have to be writing?" You won't actually be able to revise anything because you've lost all hope that you can string words together to create a sentence that makes any bit of sense at all.
In my experience, the Nasties are, thankfully, few and far between, and workshopping has improved my writing more than anything else. When they do come, all you can do is grin through the pain and drink a big cocktail. For a few days, you'll think of all the nasty things you'll say when their story comes up, but, of course, you will not stoop to their level. Because, unlike them, your momma raised you right!
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
1408: An Allegory for My Own Private Hell
I don't know how many of you have seen 1408. It is an absolutely marvelous film, and you should go rent it immediately.
Please know, though, that I plan on suing the filmmakers. I am not entirely sure how they managed to follow me around and record both my day-to-day life and the inner workings of my mind, but they managed it and now owe me loads of money for stealing my life for monetary gain. What follows is each count of the complaint I am drafting. These counts clearly (pretty good, right Mechelle?) show that the parallels between this movie and my place of employment are too strong to be mere coincidence. Please feel free to offer tips for best organizing my argument and, if you've seen the film, let me know if I've missed anything. Also, please excuse any spoilers, but I am fighting for my good name here.
COUNT ONE
Every picture in the room is askew and ugly. Ditto the paintings in my place of employment.
COUNT TWO
The temperature fluctuates between boiling hot to freezing cold for no rhyme or reason. The scene where Mike Enslin (John Cusack) burns pages from his file to keep warm was especially powerful for me as I have often lit the contents of my recycling bin on fire in a futile attempt to save myself from hypothermia.
COUNT THREE
John Cusack and I are both remarkably good looking. And thin. They obviously chose the male equivalent of me to play me. For this, at least, I am grateful.
COUNT FOUR
At one point, Gerald Olin (Samuel L. Jackson) asks Enslin if he's a drinker. Enslin answers, "Of course I am. I told you I'm a writer." I have said this at least 15 times throughout my life and have witnesses to prove it.
COUNT FIVE
We both equate We've Only Just Begun by the Carpenters to some sort of death march.
COUNT SIX
Both Enslin and I are disgusted by the things we do to make money. He travels to hotels to listen to yokels babble about fictitious hauntings; I travel from desk-to-desk to listen to idiots create fanciful tales about why their computer isn't working.
COUNT SEVEN
Most obviously, there is no escape. Ever. **Spoiler Alert** When Enslin believes he has finally escaped from the room, he learns it was all a trick and he never really left. I wept during this scene.
COUNT EIGHT
For both Enslin and I, death is a happy alternative to spending one more hour in our own personal purgatories.
COUNT NINE
Finally, and most persuasively, the demons/evil beings/whatever seem to have a bone to pick with Enslin, and the viewer is never entirely sure what he did to deserve all this. There are vague implications that maybe he was a bit of a bastard and made some big mistakes, but I think we can all agree that this is hardly an argument for eternal suffering.
This is precisely what I deal with every single day. People yell, scream, throw things, try to toss me out of windows and why? Why do they do this? I don't know, but much like Enslin, I spend every moment of every day reliving painful memories in the hopes that something, anything, will help me realize what I have done to deserve this never ending suffering. And, perhaps, with that revelation will come some sort of escape.
IN CONCLUSION
All I ask in recompense is what is fair:
- A public apology from Stephen King (even though I haven't read his short story, I am assuming that he is the one who followed me around) and Dimension Films.
- A chance to meet John Cusack and maybe have a nice meal.
- Either a job as a writer for Dimension Films or enough money in a cash settlement so that I can once and for all quit my job.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Process
My literary voice has been silent for awhile now, and I feel as if I owe everyone (or at least the three people who will read this blog) an explanation. To prove once and for all how absolutely insane I am, I will go through my self-defeating literary process with you all.
My most recent endeavor has been the zombie book. As yet (after a mere two years of piddling with the thing), it is untitled. But I digress (as you will come to find, this is problem #378). Let's look at how I have gone about not finishing this book:
7. I edit and rewrite all the way to the troublesome section. It's still troubling. In the two months I have spent rewriting, I have not had a single good idea for getting myself out of this dilemna. Just delete this fucking character, I tell myself. But then what about this scene later down the road? Deleting this guy is going to change, well, everything.
8. I sit and stare at my computer. Jesus I suck. I bet Ernest Hemingway had the balls to delete something when it wasn't working. So did Kurt Vonnegut. Even Stephen fucking King cuts when the cutting is good.
9. I go back to page one and start rereading. It really isn't very good at all. Should I even bother writing any more? Should I start from scratch? Should I bludgeon myself with my very expensive monitor? I know. I'll check my e-mail. Maybe God sent me a message telling me how to get out of this.
10. A year passes. Absolutely nothing has been accomplished. I tell myself at least once a week that I really should get back to work because writing (even writing the nonsense trash that I write) is one of the few things I really love.
11. It's baseball season.
And that leaves us here. I swore to myself I will pull out the manuscript (tomorrow, dammit) and just start writing again. I'm deleting the love story. Maybe, just maybe, I can finish this book. Wish me luck.
My most recent endeavor has been the zombie book. As yet (after a mere two years of piddling with the thing), it is untitled. But I digress (as you will come to find, this is problem #378). Let's look at how I have gone about not finishing this book:
- Idea sparks from a series of nightmares I had through most of college and graduate school; nightmares that probably stemmed from too many hours spent in front of video games and horror films.
- I develop idea into something people might actually want to read. I brainstorm ways to combine family strife (my own) with horrific scenes (not at all difficult).
- I create an outline - something new to my process. In the past, I started writing without ever thinking through how I was going to end the thing. This lead to a lot of cursing and revisions. Not this time, though. Take that, ye gods who are against me!
- I start writing. Everything is going great. The first 125 pages or so flow out of me. I am a fucking rockstar!
- Shit. I'm stuck. In the early planning stages, I had written in a half-assed love interest (well, it didn't seem half-assed at the time). Now I can't figure out how to get this stupid, unconvincing narrative drivle to work.
This is where the proverbial turds hit the proverbial fan. Any reasonable human being would just eliminate this from the plot. It's not exactly hard to hit the delete key. However, I am not a reasonable human being (ask anyone who has known me for longer than 20 minutes). Instead of taking a breath, and changing courses, I...
6. Go back to page one and start editing. My words, which once looked so brilliant, now look like the scribblings of a first grader. I take out my pen and start hacking and slashing. I more fully develop characters. I add in interesting tidbits about peoples' furniture and cars. I fix misspellings. I'm no longer a rock star, but I think I can patch this sinking ship.7. I edit and rewrite all the way to the troublesome section. It's still troubling. In the two months I have spent rewriting, I have not had a single good idea for getting myself out of this dilemna. Just delete this fucking character, I tell myself. But then what about this scene later down the road? Deleting this guy is going to change, well, everything.
8. I sit and stare at my computer. Jesus I suck. I bet Ernest Hemingway had the balls to delete something when it wasn't working. So did Kurt Vonnegut. Even Stephen fucking King cuts when the cutting is good.
9. I go back to page one and start rereading. It really isn't very good at all. Should I even bother writing any more? Should I start from scratch? Should I bludgeon myself with my very expensive monitor? I know. I'll check my e-mail. Maybe God sent me a message telling me how to get out of this.
10. A year passes. Absolutely nothing has been accomplished. I tell myself at least once a week that I really should get back to work because writing (even writing the nonsense trash that I write) is one of the few things I really love.
11. It's baseball season.
And that leaves us here. I swore to myself I will pull out the manuscript (tomorrow, dammit) and just start writing again. I'm deleting the love story. Maybe, just maybe, I can finish this book. Wish me luck.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Testing 1, 2, 3
My first post on a new blog. How exciting. Unfortunately, your feelings will likely not match my own as this will not be exciting for you.
This is a test. This is only a test.
By way of explanation, I am sick and tired of MySpace and its shenanigans, so I have decided to leave forever. I would not want to abandon my loyal readers, though, so I have moved on to other - perhaps grander - blogging pursuits. My only regret is that I will no longer be able to post a smiley face indicating my mood. Hopefully I can convey such with my words.
This is a test. This is only a test.
By way of explanation, I am sick and tired of MySpace and its shenanigans, so I have decided to leave forever. I would not want to abandon my loyal readers, though, so I have moved on to other - perhaps grander - blogging pursuits. My only regret is that I will no longer be able to post a smiley face indicating my mood. Hopefully I can convey such with my words.
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