I’m having a glass of water.

Today I did something I hadn’t done before. I submitted my new story to a couple of publications. I had been excited about “Nothing To Do With It” last week. I was happy to finish it, and I felt like it was good work. Well, I’m not shocked that I did not feel confident about it today. I think it’s smart to set expectations low to start with (rejection is part of the game), but I am experiencing myself on an express elevator to the basement now. I suppose I may never be your overconfident boyfriend. I know this. This is what I do. And that’s why I sent my work out anyways. That’s why I’ll keep writing and put in more hours tomorrow. I just need to see what happens, kinda like I just need to see myself type out these thoughts right now. I’ll keep going. I’ll keep sending this story out to places that allow multiple submissions, and I’ll work on more fiction to submit to other places. I’ll just keep working.

I look pissed off in this photo that I took of myself at the dining room table in the near dark. I’m not pissed off. I’m not anything, really. I’m just sitting.

One of the places I sent my story to is a literary magazine whose editor is one of my favorite authors. Maybe he reads all of the submissions. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe my words won’t even come near the eyes of his inbox. Maybe he’ll love my stuff. Maybe he’ll think I need more work. Maybe I’ll be killed by a rhinoceros tomorrow. 

WHO KNOWS!

To the person that anonymously messaged the other day and said that he/she wanted to be “Awesome As Fuck” like me… You made me laugh. Thanks? Yeah, thanks. I’m not sure that’s how I’d describe myself. It’s nice that you would. I’ve gotten questions asking for advice, asking for me to read work, etc. That’s flattering, but I really think of us all as peers. You’re 18 and you’re writing and you’re hoping to tell a good story and you’re hoping to reach some readers. I’m 28. I’m writing. I’m hoping to tell a good story. I’m hoping to reach some readers. I’ve only been doing it a little bit longer—that’s all. If someone publishes me, I won’t transform into Gandhi or a better analogy. We’ll still be peers. There are no black and white answers, only the endless gray. So, keep working. I’ll keep working. We’ll both keep working.