HTML Giant is rather good. Good like completing the questionnaire, in time, while treading an enormous blue sky, backwards. Much better, IMO, than this current manifestation of Fictionaut. Though I am a member of Fictionaut I still don’t really “get it.” I keep logging on, seeing people posting stories, and then other people “reading” them and posting things like, “I love it” or “Another great read, Lily” or “Good job, Antonio! Wow!”
For the life of me I can’t figure out how this process is useful to writers.
Shouldn’t someone post something like, “Tony, Simone de Beauvoir burned her first two novels. You might want to consider her point”?
Or maybe, “Tony. Dude, stick to writing bad checks, yo.”
(Simone published the 3rd.)
I think they (naut) are still developing, as I see they are expanding, diversifying into other raspberries. So maybe my view will change like a leaf and tumble into a pool of songs with sad words.
Like Fictionaut, HTML doesn’t quite know what it wants to me, but what it is now, to me, is useful.
* It shouts out new things to read. Like this.
* Thus giving us head-cheese and something to hold in the oil-change room with the Fox TV and markets for our scribblings. Why do fitness clubs usually also run Fox?
* They supply quality blogs on surrealism (meaning today as you wake, fool. That sun is smiling).
* HTML is funny. One writer made this actual statement about Tao Lin: “He’s a self-interested writer type of guy.”
Wow. I find understatement to be a lost art in humor, a little dry, a little European. When I see it, I like it. I also continue to warm to Tao Lin. I still think he’s often full of shit, but I like people who are full of shit, with style.
Got my new River Styx today.
I don’t have much to say because I have not read it yet. It’s gotta go in the looming-bedside-table-next-to-the-heroin-pile. I am reading Outliers and some Icelandic book (can’t remember it now, and don’t want to run to my bedroom) and then a new issue of Rolling Stone Magazine. I hate this magazine and the last issue I read was in 1997. I have no idea why I bought it at the gas station. Often I don’t know my own mind. My actions are a riddle I wake to.
The current issue sucks like zucchini. (I hate zucchini. Don’t even understand it, as a food.)
THREE FLASH FICTION CONTESTS YOU SHOULD ENTER:
(actually do not enter. i seek no rival to my mediocrity)
Hello! They give you cash and two cases of beer! (Writers get to use three exclamation marks their whole life, and I just dropped 14 in this post.)
Well, it’s worth it. Total bad-ass beer article here. If you think the beer’s too loud, you’re too old.
Most men pursue beer with such haste they rush right past it.
The noblest thing a man can do is to receive good beer, and then go spread it among others.
Why was I born with such weak beers? But things, they change.
No, no, you don’t have to write like Barthelme. You could list various tools, giant balloons, or not. The best thing for you is to research the judge’s writing.
Or that seems a bit much. Just send in your best short thang. Make it flute song, church wall, etc.
In the old days, Flash Fiction was actually called “postcard fiction.” Like Jesus would preach about The Rich Fool (by the way “Christians,” [I’m using a lot of Tao Lin quotation marks this post] if you’re trying to “store up” your possessions on earth, you will fry. I’d lay off the SUV with the Jesus fish emblem, my friends.) and some sandal-adorned young man would shout out, “That’s a good Postcard Fiction, my savior!”
(In the gnostic texts, Jesus would moments later strike him blind on the spot)
This contest rocks!
Your Flash Fiction wins and they:
1.) Give you a thousand bucks (you could buy 80 shirts)
3.) Your prose poem will be distributed by Meridian at the Chicago AWP. Free marketing of self!
14.) Who gets laid like an flash fiction author?
I feel like this today (that is a camera flying off in the upper right):