When we moved into this apartment, I packed away many of my books, and donated many more. These are what’s left–not including cookbooks.
Followers have been listening to me whine about my writing (non)life, and my plan to take stock and move forward. One of the ideas I was playing with was the thought of self-publishing short stories in groups of three or so. Since I knew less than zero about self pubbing, I asked on the writers’ board. I now know about zero, just enough to confirm that I am indeed too lazy and too broke to pursue self publishing at this time. I’ve never done much in terms of submitting my short fiction. Most have never been subbed anywhere, the few that were sent out once and then filed away with the inevitable rejection letter that arrived a mere 9, 12, 15 months later.
Apparently my sanity plunged along with this week’s temperatures, so I sent off stories to literary magazines, complete with crappy cover letters. What the hell do you write on a cover letter when you’re unpublished and have nothing to say about yourself that ties in with said stories in any way? “Mrs Fringe here, checking in with ovaries o’ steel.”
Why steel? Because I will only submit to markets that (potentially) pay. Doesn’t have to be a lot, doesn’t have to be The Paris Review (no, I didn’t send anything to them), but it is my work. I’ve seen a lot of quotes go past on my Twitter feed recently, having to do with art and writing for the pure love and satisfaction. Most of these quotes attributed to writers who have reached some measure of success, naturally.
Nope. My words are mine. I spend time, I edit, I pace, I obsess, I rewrite. They’re work, and if I don’t value my words, why/how would I expect anyone else to do so? If I meet someone and mention that I walk dogs, and they then ask me to walk their dog, it’s understood that this will be a paid walk. It has nothing to do with whether or not I love dogs. I can just imagine it, if you really loved animals, you’d be completely fulfilled picking up my dog’s shit in the rain, just for the love of it, and be thankful for the exposure. The reality of this philosophy is that my already slim odds of having a story accepted go down significantly–there aren’t a whole lot of paying lit mags, and they regularly publish prize winning, bestselling authors. All self explanatory as to why, though I write and have written shorts on a regular basis through the years, I’ve rarely subbed/queried them.
I expect my sanity to return with the projected rising temps. I hope.
And because it’s Friday, a few tank photos, white balance adjusted.
Enjoy your Friday, Fringelings. And when it’s last call tonight, tell your bartender drinks should be on him, for the love of it.