When They've All Left You There

I like to hedge my bets, or else I don't gamble. I hate to lose. Having lived the life of a loser, I know all too well where it leads. Failure is one thing, but loss is quite another. Failure can be the ultimate - it can mean death, but loss is lingering. Loss drains you. Loss lets you feel the life snaking out of your veins as the world goes black, and loss lets you watch as they all leave your there.

Have you ever walked into a room of people who should recognize you, yet they don't even raise their eyes? There's these two guys run a barber shop in town - young guys, not the Korean War vets you're used to. In the first five or six months of opening their doors, you could see tumbleweeds blowing around the place. A guy could walk in at half-time and be back before kick-off.

The tall barber had a long face like Humphrey Bogart, and he would mutter to himself as he swept a hole through the bare tiles. He'd stare at an empty couch with a glazed expression, or he'd fidget with his combs and towels, getting them ready in case someone stepped in.

The short barber would sit in his chair thumbing through decades-old back-issues of Playboy. He would tell the tall barber stories about skateboarders, and the tall one would be staring at the couch not listening. They'd both consider making coffee, but there was no one to drink any, so they didn't. Left the filters and cups out though, just in case.

That's when I started coming in - the first weekend they opened the doors. I'd been a customer of the previous owners, so I saw it fit to be a customer to the new ones. Didn't matter how well they cut, didn't matter if they were young or old; I liked the place before, and I'd give the place an honest shake again. They got to know me after a spell - after all, I was regular, same lookin' fella, same haircut, same style, same everything. 

That was then. After half a year, all these bullshitters started swarming the place. Guys who hadn't been to a goddamn barber their whole lives - guys who'd been settling for "stylists" at the mall. Guys who'd been cutting their hair with a bowl and some clippers in the mirror. Guys who didn't know the first goddamn thing about a barber shop, the in's the out's, the whole fucking show. Ya see, barbers aren't just some run of the mill chit chat thing like getting checked out by some weasel at the grocery store. Your barber is as integral to your life as your dentist, your doctor and your priest. No shit. There's only one guy I left out, and that's your undertaker - and that sumbitch might call up your dentist, doctor, barber and priest to help him in the end, anyway.

So these mutts start straggling in, and getting a haircut becomes increasingly difficult. One day, I walked in the place and these two barbers didn't know who the hell I was from Sam. The tall one mumbled, "Two hour wait," and the short one looked up at me for only a second and then back down the head he was cutting. There wasn't a place to stand, much less take a piss. So I left, and I never turned back.

You ever watch how the buildings in downtown Des Moines just...disappear? Vanish - into the ether. History, the face of this town, gone. The old guys have moved out and died, and now the new guys are here, and they want to pull down the wood paneling, and they want to replace the fishing lures, and they want a city covered in event posters and cheap pseudo-porn lying on the table.  They want to rob this town of its identity and make it something more palatable for a generation of selfish idiots who haven't seen the world through the eyes of the forebears. They want to steal your soul, wrench it from your husk and walk away to another town.

And so here we are, the privileged, the modern, the Americans. We are giving away parts of our lives to those who don't know us, and don't care to know us. They don't want to learn our names, they don't care about our history. They are not interested in our struggles, or our losses.  Whether we're walking into the barber's who doesn't care, or watching another building topple down only to be replaced by something "new", once they've all left us here, all that we will be is alone. And we will feel that loss lingering, the smell of tears hanging, the voices choked. 

This is not a place of failure and victory. This is a place of selfish hands grasping at the precious things soon lost.

The Ultimate Iron-Knee

As some of you may be aware (actually, none of you - I have no fans, I write this as an internet-published diary in order to keep my lonely madness at bay), I submitted a story titled Dock of the Bay to the literary magazine Tin House for their 2015 Spring themed edition titled Rejection.

I did NOT receive a rejection from Tin House. No, in fact, the status of my story is still listed as "In Review" according to my Submittable account. 

That's where things get juicy. Follow along, I'm tellin' a story here...

When I was a younger man, there was a girl I knew who was just hotter'n'balls: gorgeous eyes, curves that could stall your engine, lips like grapefruit - you get the idea. Every fuckin' lowlife I knew was bangin' this girl like a screen door in a windstorm. Every one. Every one but me. 

Now if I were a militant feminist man-hater, I would accuse me of objectifying this girl, of thinking I knew her tastes better than her, of turning her choice to have many sexual partners into a crime because she would not choose me, yada yada yada. Truth be told, I don't think any of that. She was hot as hell and she couldn't even see me -  I was invisible. I didn't do drugs, I wasn't short and skinny, I didn't have much money, I just wasn't very cool. Tin House - same shit. It's like I never walked into the room.

I submitted a story for a Rejection themed magazine that didn't even have the time to reject me.

So how do you suppose I found out Tin House decided to reject me without an official rejection? Just like any cheating spouse, I could hear Tin House fucking in my bedroom while I was away. I visited their website, saw their Rejection themed publication on sale, reviewed the authors (surprise, I wasn't in the list) and then reviewed my submittable account. Again. Yes, I'd already checked my account before going to Tin House, but I thought I would double check just in case the powers that be realized they'd forgotten me, left me behind; a lame dog waiting to be shot behind the woodshed while the family is away on Spring Break.

Jesus Christ. You'd think by now I'd just give up and spend my last $200 on the roulette tables at Prairie Meadows. Fuck it - when you lose at the casino, at least someone slaps you on the back and says, "Them's the breaks kid, better luck next time."

Not me. I bet I couldn't even give my money away in a casino. Goddamnit.

On a lighter note, I have cancer.

(*edit: three people have now asked me if I actually had cancer. I do not. But I do have a tapeworm as thick as my thumb and as long as sixteen football fields. Sumbitch breaks off every time I shit. So send money for me to clear this thang up.)

Sprang Feyvur

Why is it we feel so locked up at the end of winter? For godsake, it's not like we don't leave the house. It's not as if we all live in a tundra, frozen solid and wretched, buried under mountains of snow, to the point of near-starvation once our salted reserves run out. We get out, we buy food, we entertain ourselves from time to time. So why does a little warm weather (Springtime warm being roughly 50 degrees in the sun) drag us all out of our houses?

Because we're all closeted Pagan swingers. That's right. Every one of us wants to find the nearest semi-attractive cretin and pound their brains out with our genetalia. Just imagine, if we could get our collective hands around one another's throats, we would cudgel the life out of each other's pissers until we were so bruised we had to hide indoors for another few months. In fact, if it weren't for Jayzus Chrust, or Mo-Hamd, or whatever those Jews worship (golden sex calves?), we would be returning to our awful Pagan roots and leaving our idiot spouses for greener (literally) pastures. 

But I jest. 

Jest git yer pants off and let's screw! I mean it. Spring brings out the devils in us like Fathers Merrin and Karras beating up on that sexy nymphette in her bedroom during the (s)Exorcist. It's something terrible, let me tell ya. 

I was out this afternoon taking pictures of Decaying Des Moines (copyright's reserved, in case you feel like stealing that little plum). I was getting shots of the Des Moines Brewery on SW 3rd & MLK (home of Old Tavern beer!) when some old woman walked by and asked me not to take her picture. The camera was most definitely not pointing at her, I assure you. But when I turned to look, this grandmother (60+) had her green dyed hair up in pigtails, and she was wearing short, short, shorts with green and black striped sox, a green sports bra, and nothing else. I said, "Oh, are you out for St. Patrick's Day?" she smiled - and not an innocent smile of confirmation. More of a leering, tongue wringing, ball grabbing smile that made me sick to see. 

This is what we have become. Sex crazed maniacs. I'm not complaining, not by any means, but why hasn't some politician made an ass of himself debating this on live television yet? Why haven't Jeb Bush and Hillary Clinton been caught up in a raw sex scandal in some piss soaked brothel? Why hasn't Tony Weinermobile been nabbed for sexting again? Where are our moral authorities during these fateful hours?

Probably planning to swindel the hell out of us.

Us versus Them

It's easy to turn "them" into "other". America was founded on this - a nation built on the backs of slaves and immigrants, fighting the Europeans, scratching an existence out against the Native peoples across the country, including Mexicans and so called "Indians". Fighting wars across the world in massive, almost mythic, displays of might. We Americans are often comfortable saying, "War against 'the other' is in our blood."

But it's not. In fact, most of America's sons and daughters were born on foreign shores at some point down the line. The Native Americans migrated here tens of thousands of years ago over ancient land bridges. If we discount them, then we have the English, French and Spanish crossing the Atlantic in order to conquer various territories. And if we discount them, we still saw the Irish, the Poles, the Germans, the Italians, the Scandinavians, and the Dutch, to name a handful of light skinned travelers, who left their holy soils for the free world. And what about the Africans; forced from their lands in order to fulfill a lifetime of servitude? Would you call America the "free world" while it was forcing others into slavery? All of the aforementioned peoples were "outsiders" compared to any given inhabitants.

We are all "others". We are all outsiders, the rabble, the unwanted dregs of some European ghetto. At one time, America opened its arms to all of the huddled masses pouring from the rest of the world - remember that lousy old Statue of Liberty gifted to us by those awful French as a gesture of hope and friendship? Our greatest minds, our strongest shoulders, our best fighters, our spirit and essence, was built off the backs of "others".

And yet America rips at her seams as black men are gunned down in her streets because there is a systemic problem with racially motivated violence. Latinos, especially South Americans, Mexicans and Cubans, want badly to come into America and we turn them back by the thousands. People of Middle-Eastern heritage, as well as actual Indians, have committed a double crime of being colored AND eastern. 

This country has a real stinking goddamn problem with "them" and "the other". Lady Liberty weeps as her children fall to murdering all of those "others" who want so badly to belong. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves. When will we eschew this dichotomy? 

So before you spew hatred against a black man protesting the violence he faces daily in the streets, or before you shun a Latino who desperately wants his family to have a better life in our country, or before you start spouting anti-Muslim garbage to anyone who looks Middle-Eastern (and just as likely isn't), just remember, your family were once guests in this country. Your ancestors raised your family to thrive here, even in the face of seemingly impossible odds. Knock off the shit and accept these "others" into your communities. They are what makes America great.

12 Steps of Writer's Anonymous

Step 1. Write something worth reading (good luck).

Step 2. Successfully write a query letter.

Step 3. Create a halfway convincing bio complete with ridiculous photo you wouldn’t show off.

Step 4. Research literary magazines; especially those printing only the most pretentious navel-gazing pap. Remember, you don’t have a MLA or PHD, which is why you’re not already on the staff.

Step 5. Silently struggle through mania and depression while you do everything in your power to build a legitimate platform in any number of these magazines.

Step 6. Create a website using Squarespace; pay the yearly fee so it looks nice and has some kind of functionality.

Step 7. Create a separate email address unique to your Squarespace website.

Step 8. Create a Facebook account for your Author alter-ego, even if you don’t have one for yourself because the idea of social media sickens you.

Step 9. Create Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram/Etc account for your author Alter-ego, and attach to your website. See above.

Step 10. Realize you’re a ham-fisted boor, unfit to publish in any given medium. Contemplate scrapping everything you’ve established above so you can focus your energy on something meaningful – like learning how to play pub-style darts. (Cricket, anyone!?)

Step 11. Give up on giving up. Post bitter blog entries, like this one, knowing no one will read them. Keep paying the yearly fee because, what the hell, it’s already set up.

Step 12. Find Zen-like peace in your apathy. Continue telling others you’re an author. Keep posting obnoxious things on your website. Keep churning out awful, uninspired crap. Hell, who knows, maybe one day when you’re dead, they’ll pull an Edgar Allen on you and teach kids what a great writer you were. (haha, no, just kidding. You must have skipped step 1.)

Three strikes, dildo. You're out.

I'm used to trying and failing. It's not even really a badge of honor anymore; it's the mustard stain on my tshirt during a lapse-of-judgement-street-food-evening. I expect it. I wouldn't know what to do if I didn't have it.

I went to Beaverdale Books this evening to do a reading for the Season of Story. I was up first. I'd typed everything on an 8.5x11 piece of paper, folded it, and read aloud. What a clod. Honestly, if I have a superpower, it's completely misunderstanding things. When I go to a deli, I can't spit my order out before they pass me over for someone else. When I go to a buffet, I only eat one thing. When I try to run my snowblower, I leave the choke on the entire time. And when I attend a storytelling function, I bring a typed piece of paper. I am the proto-rube. The mythical Ignoramus.

So storytelling involves more than reading from a paper. One should be engaging the audience, spinning a tale before them, using hand motions and sound effects. The kind of thing Uncle Randy does when he's had five too many whiskey sours. The whole family gathers round him to hear about his latest disgusting exploit because he tells such a damn good story. Some people are BORN storytellers. Christ, I'M a born storyteller. You'd think I would have had this in the bag. 

So out of maybe six contestants, I didn't place. The 16 year old girl who told a story about why she loves cats more than boys won 2nd. Second. Rhymes with fecund. Huh...

I'll get back on the horse, though. Everyone has given up pointing out my mustards stains, and I refuse to buy new shirts. These are still comfortable. And so is coming in last. When you're in last place, you get to watch everyone else's hot ass shake. Booyah.

Inwood Indiana's latest edition "Crossroads" coming soon!

My story Inwood Station is featured in Inwood Indiana's latest edition titled Crossroads, available today at Prolific Press. Single copies are $17.95. Check out the multiple copy discount! 

http://prolificpress.com/bookstore/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=4&products_id=105

From Inwood Indiana:

“Between the road sign and the ditch, Inwood Indiana is widely considered to be the strangest place on earth.

Crossroads is filled with hand selected literary works spanning an eclectic mix of subjects with emphasis on legend, lore, fable, horror, small towns, and all things unusual.

The legend of Inwood Indiana attracts writers from all over the world, all competing to have their poems and stories printed by the smallest press in the world.”

Four Horses of the Apocalypse

Currently, I have three horses of the Apocalypse finished: The Pony, Pursuit of the Caballeros, and Nether Black Wings.

The fourth and final awaits my pen. I have the idea, I've already written the story, but I can't seem to bear it forth correctly. It's just sitting in my lap, stillborn. I would leave it alone, write something else, try again like every good writer should, but the story begs to be told. 

Writing a good story should be like a forest fire; miles of trees engulfed in flames, embers burning white hot into the summer nights. The characters should tear themselves from the page and run away on their own without nudging. They should grab their independence viciously, remorselessly; the pearl clutchers and the hand wringers should leap away in fright. Finally, after all fuel is spent, the flames should die down until all ideas nearby are fried to a crisp.

Unfortunately, I had a Hindenburg. My idea caught flame and fell to the ground in a spectacular burn-out. There were a couple characters, but they waited passively, trying to get out of the way of the collapsing story. A few additional characters showed up late, but they couldn't salvage much. Afterward, the story begged to be buried deep away from prying eyes. One big mistake. One big, hot turd when no outhouse was available.

Finding inspiration is easy, but stoking the flames can be a hot mess.

Keep Them Embers Burnin'

Ray Bradbury wrote an excellent piece for writers called Zen In the Art of Writing. For those of you unfamiliar with Bradbury's work, I would suggest getting a goddamn Amazon account yesterday and purchasing at least six of his novels with overnight shipping. You have to be kidding me! That aside, Zen is an excellent introduction to creative writing made specifically with budding writers in mind.

One of Bradbury's suggestions, which has been echoed for ages, is that a writer should be creating as often, and as much, as possible. The idea is that a master [enter skilled trade] needs to practice his/her trade often in order to not only stay sharp, but to improve. If you have an idea, write it down - don't waste time editing it while you're writing, just write it! If the piece has merit, spend some down time later in the week/month editing it. Do this so often that you have a vast pool of work to choose from, and nearly endless practice.

Although I advocate this concept, I am not necessarily an adherent. In fact, I find the more I force myself to write, the less inspired I become. I am most inspired by the dungeons of my soul, and by the things which frighten me. To live in dungeons and to be frightened often, does not make for a sane individual capable of writing often, thus, I must balance my writing with my inspiration.

In any case, I've been working on a number of different projects, having sidelined my short story run for now. I am still waiting to hear back from Tin House regarding my submission for their 2015 Spring Rejection edition. I am also waiting to hear back from Front Porch Journal. Meanwhile, I continue to hack away at the Fawney Rig.

Oh, and I've taken back up an old flag I carried a year ago. It's a funny little project; once which I collaborated with a friend and local artist. I doubt I'll explain it much further, but it's nice to keep the fire going with something I really enjoy.

So while I don't necessarily write every day, I must say, you gotta keep them embers burnin' or else the damn fire could go out...

Don't Forget to Phone Home for Xmas!

While we celebrate another stolen Pagan holiday, pretending the "Reason for the Season" is a god-child born to a "virgin", rather than millennia upon millennia of local (aka Pagan) festivals geared around the solstice, let's all tip back another egg nog and pretend to care.

May you all feast, drink and be happy! The long nights will soon shorten, and the warm days lengthen. Death shall be overcome as Nature prevails and is born once more!

(and we celebrate another Pagan holiday called Easter...) 

Social Fucking Media

In today's market, there are two systems writers are supposed to (somehow) master: 1. Traditional Publishing and, 2. Self-Publishing. I've been trying to dip my toes into both pools and it's been a challenge to say the least.

Neither system is worth a damn as far as I can tell. You have pitfalls and bogus money-traps with both. Without a Masters in Literary Arts, I'm spinning my wheels with the Traditional Publishing world. Without tons of bought-and-paid exposure, I'm drowning in the Self-Publishing world.

I admit, I need to create some social media accounts devoted to getting my name and website recognized. Yet, it feels so entirely disingenuous. Am I the only one who feels this way? I don't give a shit what your kid is doing, or what your cat looks like, or what you had for lunch yesterday - so I choose not to participate on Twitter, Snapchat, Facebook, Instagram, etc. Why would I expect anyone to stop thinking about themselves for a minute just to care about my writing? They wouldn't. That and I'm not offering some hand-crafted hipster-friendly art garbage, so you know, that rules me out of Etsy, Pinterest, etc.

But I guess this is what they call 'Building your platform', and everyone from agents to publishers wants you to participate. Then, of course, if you're a self-publisher, you have to participate anyway or else no one knows you exist.

I sent a story to Tin House back in September. Instead of submitting to their regular publication, I chose a story from Desperately Fashioned Steel called "Dock of the Bay" for their Spring Rejection-themed publication. The reading status has been 'In Progress' for some time now. I'm hoping that's a good sign. Usually, your story is 'In Progress' for a week or two before you get the canned rejection response. I'd enjoy being published in Tin House, and it would look nice on my inquiry letters to agents.

Or maybe I should just tell agents how often I've been rejected? That sounds good, doesn't it? The desperation of rejection on your breath like stale cigarette smoke and juice-cut gin. Everybody loves a loser. People love to watch other people burn to death. They push rewind on self-immolating monks. 

Some drunk guy approached a friend and me this afternoon after lunch. He walked over all smooth, hammered out of his gourd, and tried to ask us for a dollar. My friend asked him if he could spare $10 so we could huff gasoline, and we'd give him a dollar back in change. The guy nearly fell over himself in the middle of the street trying to flip us off. 

See...everyone likes a loser. We almost gave THAT guy money, and all he did was fall over himself drunk. I'm in the wrong line of business here, aren't I?

Protest

The popularity, and remoteness, of the internet affords many a soapbox on which to stand for or against the protests tied to recent judicial events in Ferguson, MO.

Some have deemed these protests unnecessary, often referring to the supposed circumstances under which the killing took place, as related by the accused officer. 

Others believe the protests are justified because the issue isn't simply that a young unarmed black man was shot dead in the street, but that this is only one of many such incidents.

Still, others point to this as one more example of an increasingly confrontational, ever-hostile police force bent on the acquisition of military surplus weapons and vehicles in order to secure absolute power in the streets. Protests such as those witnessed in Ferguson seem to only fan the flames of fear.

Whichever side you've chosen, or perhaps whichever side you should find yourself standing, please consider the following:

1. In June of 1963, black civil rights leader Medgar Evers was murdered for what he believed. His murderer spent the next 30 years as a free man before finally being arrested and convicted of the murder in 1994. 

2. In November of 1963, President John Kennedy was murdered for what he believed while on parade in Dallas, TX. A proponent of civil rights and equality, Kennedy made many enemies throughout the power structures of the United States. Although shouted down for decades, conspiracy theories seem to implicate a massive government cover up.

3. In February of 1965, Malcolm X was murdered for what he believed while speaking in Harlem. Some point to the FBI's Counter Intelligence Program (COINTELPRO) as culprit in the murder. Such allegations have not been proven, although later documents released showed involvement by the FBI in attempting to dismantle the Black Panthers using such techniques.

4. In April of 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was murdered for what he believed. In December of 1999, as a result of a civil trial spanning four weeks of testimony, a 12 member jury in Memphis, TN found the US Government guilty of conspiracy to assassinate Dr. King.

5. In June of 1968, presidential hopeful and civil rights advocate Robert Kennedy was murdered for what he believed. Again, conspiracy theorists are often shouted down from the public arena, and lack of evidence and testimony do not assist in further review. However, available footage, testimony and anecdote suggest a conspiracy of murder beyond the scope provided in the official story, and possibly implicating the FBI.

In the scope of five years, five leaders in the civil rights movement, black and white, were murdered; gunned down for acting within their constitutional rights, for speaking out against oppression, and for standing up to ignorance. The US Government is often accused, but rarely proven, to be involved. In any case, it is startling to see that half a decade could wipe out so many leaders of a cause in a country that is supposedly free and just.

Black men are portrayed as violent, confrontational and unpredictable. Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner and Michael Brown are just three publicized victims to this perception. While white men are also beaten and killed by the police, black men are six times more likely to be imprisoned - meaning black man are at least six times more likely to be stopped, frisked, questioned, assaulted, jailed and possibly killed because of their skin color.

Perhaps those rioting in Ferguson, as well as those protesting in cities across the country, are not necessarily protesting the deaths of the aforementioned black men and advocates. Perhaps they are simply protesting the plight of an oppressed minority in 21st Century America?

In Those Quiet Places

Pride is placed in our buildings during erection. Apparently shame is part of the deconstruction. Shame that the owner couldn't cut the rent. Shame business went bad. Shame a family suffered to make ends meet. Shame quality started to hit the floor. Shame the community couldn't care enough, much less come together.

Love is always so hot and bright. Like candlelight dancing in the rain, red and orange, thrashing in the wind, persisting. Love is the wonder which keeps us sad ghosts haunting one another. Like moths, we hunger to be consumed in its flames.

Death is usually a quiet ordeal, even for businesses and buildings. Visiting the corpses along the roadway is a decision often worth making. Seeing a husk in such a vulnerable state reminds us of how fragile our lives are; how fragile, this social contract. 

In times of war, when bombs rain down upon towns, and gunfire rattles through the tin-pan alleys, much love is lost and never regained. Death gladly fills those voids. Afterward, the stoic survivors eschew the tender things, the memories, the hope. Buildings once loved and revered become as diseased things, painful memories, cystic lumps near the road. Yet, coping is often more important.

But how strange that in times of peace, we should ignore these old flames and soft relics. Are we really so programmed to forget? Perhaps the sulfur lights extinguished when they locked the front doors? So many hours spent somewhere only to miss it on your drive by.

"Inwood Station" accepted by Prolific Press/Inwood Indiana

I came across a small, small...small publication called Inwood Indiana, in July 2014. A brief tour through the site convinced me I wanted to be published there.

Many writers chasing this dream will tell you they strive to write great stories for great publications. They will tell you they spend hours editing their piece into dust. Their hands are fleshy and raw from hammering away at an inquiry letter. They submit, and submit, and submit until their so goddamn threadbare you could poke a pencil through their heart.

Hey, this writing business is brutal. Think about it like this - if you're a doctor, you go to school, you get lucky, you do well, you become a doctor. Now imagine standing in front of panel after panel trying to get certification to practice. Some say your work is superficial and uninspired. Some say your specialty is too prevalent, while others insist it's too obscure. No one is interested in certifying you to practice, much less allow you to open shop and start your own business. What, you think you can just work at something you love and get paid? Sorry fancy pants, you gotta get a job like the rest of us and practice medicine in private and often unrewarded, like some pervert with his hand down his pants at the park.

Meanwhile, your friends and family nod and sigh when you bring up medicine. People at parties smile politely when you tell them you're a doctor. You meet a lawyer at a charity gala and he nods without smiling and suggests you get a real job.

Yep, being an "author" is kick ass. But when you find a publication you like, and you write a story specifically for them, and they accept it...

It reminds you of that lonely little boy you knew so many, many years ago. In between breaths, he pressed his blue pen furiously against the empty pages of a dogeared notebook. And with every hopeless stroke, he commanded the gods.

Formatting into an EPUB?

Here's an interesting thought - how many writers do you know? Probably not a whole lot, but at least one or two of your friends might claim it as a hobby. Of those writers, how many are very successful? Probably none of them. So where do they earn their bread?

Well, chances are if they're writing then they're half-way intelligent, but obviously not intelligent enough to have gone the next step into a paying profession. They're probably working at an office. In a cubicle. Taking phone calls, managing files, following up with team leaders and project leaders, and directors, etc., etc. 

Meanwhile, as a writer, you're not only rejected by your bosses at work, your also often rejected by a bunch of smarmy, up-nosed intellectuals in the literary industry - we're talking publishers, agents, magazine editors, even that hot old hippie lady at the coffee shop (she wrote an entire novel about her menstrual cycle, and it's currently a best-seller on Amazon). When you get rejected over and over, you start thinking about publishing your own work. That's right, you're gonna throw up that middle finger to the man, and get a discount printer at a garage sale, and invest in some ink cartridges, and you're gonna make chap books like a pro. You even wasted money on one of those ridiculous bone folder tools.

Yeah, that lasts about two summer afternoons and twenty minutes at Kinkos before you remember how broke you were to begin with, and now you have to pawn off some poorly printed, unstapled 8.5x11 "books" on all your friends who are already sick and tired of your "passion".

So now, it's double-fuck the man. You're going to EPUBLISH THIS SUMBITCH. It's free. It makes people rich. You'd be a fool not to do it. In fact, that fat lady at work who's always bringing soap-flavored brownies told you that her nephew published six of his memoirs on Amazon. Where's your presence? Are you even a writer?

Let me tell you this much, I've spent the last weekend watching tutorials on how to format my Word document into a suitable EPUB file that can be uploaded. I'm still lost. I wrote everything these people said, and I ended up with a 30 step process - which didn't even include the downloading of certain conversion/reader programs that eat up half the afternoon just to install.

You know why struggling writers pay nerds $200+ to convert their lousy book into an EPUB file? Because us writers have to be back to our 9-5's so we can afford all this bullshit. We can't just take a couple days off to learn how to correctly run Microsoft Word. And we've already burned most of our other time-off being sick, taking care of shit, going on pointless "vacations" for research (another topic needing discussion). Writers just don't have the goddamn time.

Meanwhile, those nerds...the one's that learn all these programs and charge the $200+ to format your crap?

Yeah - say hello to the tech guys on the fourth floor of your building while you're at work sometime. These are the same guys you always see playing ping pong at the gym, doesn't matter what time of day it is. They wear $300 Diesel jeans and a $300 Thomas Pink Shirt, but can't be damned to comb their hair. They're driving BMW's and Audi's with really nice stereo systems, and their wife is hot. And she has the Mirena - no obnoxious side effects (aka children) there. 

Yep, it's one big cycle. All you had to do was stop chasing that pipe dream (writing a novel no one would read) and take college a little more seriously. You could have been in IT making bank. And on the side, you'd be formatting books into EPUB apps. Duh. That's easy. 30 steps? That ain't nothin' compared to writing code. Pussies.

Shoulda gone into IT.

Rejection is beautiful.

If you've tried to submit your writing to a literary magazine, you likely know how good it feels to be rejected. Constantly. Over and over. 

At first, you were submitting to publications with clout - you're a budding Hemingway after all. But once you've tasted those first 20 rejections, you begin sending your stories to cut-rate bullshit rags who publish only those works not worth reading beyond, "The night was dark and moody..." 

They reject you, too.

So you say fuck it, and you keep writing, and you get some business cards, and you put up a website, and you buy an expensive laser color printer with cartridges that cost more than your mortgage, and you bankroll a pipe-dream-project of self-publishing, and you set up a special email address, and...

...you get a rejection email. To your new address. The one you set up so that you could self-publish everything on your new Gutenberg under a phony name. How did they even get that email?

But it's like getting your nipple bitten during sex; at first it seems painful, but the more it happens, the more you like it. You start asking everyone to do it. You go out of your way to be rejected. There isn't a magazine or ePublication low enough on the totem pole. By god, you want to tell all your friends that you might just be stupid enough to get rejected by your own goddamn publication.

Take it from me, dear reader, all is not lost. Once you've run out of literary publications to whet your whistle, there are thousands of publishers and agencies out there just waiting to send you a form letter that begins, "Thank you for the opportunity to consider your work. However..."

Folks, this is what paradise is like. One rejection after another. Strap on your rubber undies and tighten the belt around your neck, because rejection feels so good...