detach
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- kingjulien
Last night, at the height of election fever, I received an email from an editor at a literary journal. I had recently submitted three short stories. I knew it was a longshot but I figured, hey, what the hell. This is a big time place and just seeing their address in my inbox was huge. For a moment I saw my whole life changing, me opening the letter, them telling me how lucky they were to have found me, that they loved my work, that it was brilliant and profound and funny, that my collection was already calendared for a release next summer and could they possibly send me an advance in the meantime. I took a deep breath. Then I read the note. "Thank you for your submission but your stories do not appear to be a match with our interests. Regards."
It was short, it was direct. it was honest. And it was probably right. I wanted to fire back an angry response, how I didn't want to be in their stupid bourgeoi journl anyway, but I knew that would ruin any future options, and I knew it would be a lie. I felt a weird tingle in my spine, one of those 'I just have been put in my place' tingles, and then I detached myself from the message and went to bed.
This morning it is raining outside and the world feels grey and cold. The hangover from the Red Sox championship has left me numb; Kerry lost to a fumbling baboon yesterday, which says something about him, and yet regardless, it's hard to feel optimistic about the state of the world.
And yet, there's a beauty too in this apathy, if you look at it through the right lens. The cut on my lip stings but it feels alive. I came home wet and soggy from school and I don't care, and if this were The Shawshank Redemption I would raise my arms like Andy and scream. When I'm done typing this I'm going to get a chicken burrito down the street--the kind with grilled chicken instead of that shredded crap, and lots of guacamole and black beans and swiss cheese. Then I'm gonna twist a lil fruitknock, turn on Mogwai, and clean my room with my heating pad bulged in the back of my sweatshirt. I've got a girl coming over in a few hours for a photoshoot, and I'm feeling creative, and fuck it, it's time to embrace this chaos instead of whining about it. There's a point to this madness and if I could just put my finger on it and and taste the sweet nectar and put it all into words, into something meaningful, then I just might make you dance.
- ********0
you should write a story about it
- ********0
There's some bitter consolation in being relieved of the burden of hope.
I'm back where I always knew I was-- an outsider, not a participant
- ********0
looks like a damn story to me ju
- ricstultz0
yeah, those kind of let downs can wound an ego.... they can also be pretty damn inspiring.
- mrdobolina0
here here, king.
- GreedoLives0
i agree...let's make some art.
all this talk of moving to canada is kind of pissing me off...we need you here now more than ever. this isn't the end of the world you know.
- brooke0
You were always a writer.
- vespa0
well you didn't make me dance cos i'm too busy kicking things but at least you made me smile. cheers.
i think i'll light up a fat bifta of detachment right now. aw yea. and maybe a beer or two and some david shrigley thoughts will let me down easy.
i want my beer to be good and honest and true with a hint of the unknown. i want my beer to be authentic and fresh with an explosive finish. i want my beer to be a flavoursome masterpiece brewed outside the united kingdom but still within the european economic community. i want my beer to be strong and have integrity, like my father, and to be kind and forgiving, like my mother. i do not want my beer to be bitter and unreliable like my uncle pete. and i don't want it to taste of metal like someone has put a pocketful of loose change in it.
- kingjulien0
Hey Brooke. Good to hear from you. I hope that you're happy.
Cheers, everybody.