TOP SIX REJECTIONS THIS WEEK:
2.) It was really late. I had a 2.5 drink buzz. On the TV a beautiful man was shilling an exercise machine that resembled a preying mantis. He had abs like abandoned clocks. I walked into the bedroom. The shadows made me tired. I whispered, “Denise?” She didn’t move. She didn’t move at all. I lay down. Stared at the ceiling fan and treaded night thoughts and fell asleep.
This was an encouraging letter. Here is a small excerpt:
Thanks for letting us read your work. We talked about your piece quite a
bit and each liked the premise of the story. It’s something you don’t get
often. I truly love the quietude and loneliness you’re able to convey in
such a short amount of time.
Unfortunately, we received a lot of short pieces this time around, and in
the end, we just couldn’t find a place for “Ingrid” in AVERY. As much as
we liked the writing of the story, we just weren’t as emotionally
And so on.
I have at least three magazines this year say they couldn’t get “emotionally connected” to some of my persona pieces. Maybe the writer (me) isn’t connected enough? Frost said, “No tear in the writer, no tear in the reader.” He was using hyperbole, but you get the idea. Do I care enough about this material?
Me Above, after Checking My Email:
Sometimes in intro Creative Writing, a student will get their work back with my feedback; and will sheepishly say, “I apologize. I admit I just wrote that a few minutes before class.”
And I reply, “Yes. I know.”
4.) I was so ready to disc golf. So ready for the sirens. With disc golf thoughts and disc golf glee and disc golf supermarkets in the Denvers of my brain. So crank and father. So miracle stuff the turkey. I felt disc golf in my aorta, thrumming, a little wild bird, a little chance to be a better man, a little pulse growing to verve growing to a universe of composed songs…Then God made it rain.
5.) “Come here, Mia! Come on dog!” I pleaded. “Come on, girl!” I was in the eager kneeling position, hands outstretched to the sun. My dog ran away from me, across the creek, across several yards, across highway 32, into a pasture, over a fallen tree, across a river, down a bypass, into Manhattan, along a tunnel, out of the tunnel, up a brick wall, into a hispter’s apartment on the upper East Side, a tiny little shotgun going for $1400 a month, and my dog curled there below the futon, below the hipster and a single mom of 45 making out with up-most awareness of the brevity of life, in the warm glow of actually living; and off the bookshelf tumbled Buddha.
Some of this is metaphorical. (I just saw a blue cardinal outside, at the bird-feeder, and that’s going to distract me all day. A blue cardinal?)
6.) Elimae again…