Attack! of the Killer Weblog

During my lunch break today, I was home exactly long enough to grab the mail and toss it onto the table. The top envelope was a crumpled sase that was depressingly thick. My only thought was, Man, I'm glad I got another job before the rejections started showing up. Didn't even open it--didn't want to get all depressed and have to go back to work.

See, while I was out of work last week, I spent a lot of time sending out resumes, a lot of time relaxing with people close to me, and some time sending out poetry that I thought had no chance in hell of ever seeing publication. It was something to do, you see, to cheer me up and make me feel like I'm part of the writing community (whatever that is), during what was unabashedly not-fun, as weeks go.

And when I got home from work tonight, I plucked up the courage and slitted open said envelope with my chickenscratch across the back.

I read the first letter, skipping over the sad little salutation I was so sure was there, and suddenly was very confused.

Instead of "Slag off, you no-talent wanker hack," it was all, "Sign the enclosed release! Both of them! We like this stuff! Except the one poem, it's too long for us."

Imagine, me, writing a poem that's too long.

So one's slated for the next issue, and one for the issue after that. Beside myself? Hardly. But happy? Oh my yes. And best of all. Reaffirmed.

Looks like I have a fighting chance after all.

EDIT ... So it's Fighting Chance Magazine, a totally print publication I had never heard of, which are my favorite kind. Discovery, the thrill of pillaging virgin territory, drinking from the skull of your military captain who balked when you ate that guy's brain (what was the problem? Not like he was using it)--that's what drives me. Here's the address and payment info. Be ye warned, my promotion is self-ful, and shameless.

Suzerian Enterprises
P.O. Box 60336
Worcester, MA 01606

Back issues $4, current issues $4, one year/three copies subscription $12.

Posted by mb at 7:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I'm looking around the room and see the following things, from left to right.

Jack the kitten, cozied up on top of a pile of throw pillows.

An almost-empty bookcase, ready to move once we are.

The Venture brothers.

The answering machine, blinking light indicative of a decent social calendar.

A telescope and a rock tumbler. Nurds live here.

A basket of yarn and a bag of yarn.

Yeah, I have a lot of yarn.

Posted by mb at 8:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Ever since I stopped working at the bookstore, I have been oddly inspired to read. When I worked there, day in, day out, surrounded by books of which I had read a teeny fraction, I was overwhelmed by choices. Too much! Too much! All I had to go on were customers' statements, and let us face it, my reading tastes stray a bit from your typical Midwestern older lady. Besides, the last thing I wanted to look at when I got home was another damned book, after I'd spent all day hauling them around like chattel.

I am rediscovering my joy. Albeit in kind of strange ways.

In the last week, I've read no fewer than seven books. A couple were part of the giant haul I bought on my last day in the store, the rest were borrowed from friends who not only delight in talking books with me, but understand about that whole not having endless amounts of spare cash and bookcase room.

Those books? What were they? I'm glad you asked!

Grave Peril, Jim Butcher
The Circle Trilogy: Morrigan's Cross, Dance of the Gods, Valley of Silence, Nora Roberts
The Exorcist, William Blatty
Legends, compilation of short novels by every fantasy author ever
Holly, Jude Deveraux

There wasn't a one among them that wasn't compelling, and while I love the Harry Dresden novels with a deep corner of my cold little heart, I have to say--that William Blatty sure can story him a good yarn. It was like reading the best poetry, in book form, with a chilling quality that saw in a bottle of holy water by my bed.

There's a distinct vampire theme to these books, all save the Jude Deveraux, although the one thing that would have made that book better was a few references to Mr. the Impaler. I can't say why that is. Sometimes I'll just gravitate to a theme and run with it. But I was battling my own personal demons, and maybe these stories helped garner a little of my courage.

I won. That says something, yes?

Posted by mb at 7:14 PM | Permalink

I am finally swimming back through the depths of surrealism to a world so shiny and bright that I am dazzled by it, it and its non-delirium.

Mostly.

I've had a cold for the last several days, the kind of cold that makes me want to find whoever termed such a thing a "cold" and strangle him with the direct verbal contrast, which is staggering. I am not one to run fevers normally, or be knocked down by an illness for longer than 48 hours. We're on Day 4 here, and it's looking good, or at least marginally better, so that's something.

Fevers are such a strange beast. Your body's fighting infection, but it's fighting sanity right along with it, which makes me wonder what sanity and infection have in common.

I've noticed that my imaginations kicks into overdrive when I've been sacked out on the couch for four days, with naught for company but commentary tracks to movies from the '80s. Somehow the stories I'm writing have a lot more to do with giant talking birds than women having conversations about the greater meaning of life. Makes me wonder if all those people who create stuff that looks like it has to be drug-induced, are saving a hell of a lot of money on weed, and are getting themselves into the 100F range and watching butterflies morph out of the wallpaper.

We don't have wallpaper, but the peacock feathers in my living room are an excellent substitute.

Posted by mb at 10:23 PM | Permalink