The defenestration of blog

It happened. Someone bought a short story. One that I wrote.

You may have heard me proclaim that I don’t understand how short stories work. I still don’t. I find them strange, elusive beasts. I’ve always written long fiction, so everything I know, everything that’s intuitive to me about world-building and character-building and pacing, don’t apply.

That said, I decided last year to make an effort to better understand short fiction. All the conventional wisdom says that it’s a great way to hone the craft and bulk up the resume. So at the end of last December, while everyone was enjoying their holidays, I was busy writing a weird little story about a dead girl whose body gets turned into a violin*. On January 1st, 2018, I made my first submission of my first complete short story for a themed issue of a magazine. It was a perfect fit. I got held for further consideration. And then rejected.

Surprisingly, I was less disappointed about the rejection than I thought I’d be. Hell, I got past the slush pile.  I probably don’t suck. Cool. So I sent it off again. That rejection came much quicker. But third time’s the charm, apparently (as long as we’re in the land of cliches, I’m claiming beginner’s luck as well). 137 days from submission to acceptance. This little guy is going to be appearing in the January issue of Apex Magazine, exactly one year after sending it out the door for the first time.

The first thing I did when I got the email? Break down crying, of course, because I’m a walking puddle of human emotions.

I want to tell my mom about this so badly. She always teased me for calling myself a writer and never letting anyone read my work. I had sent her a couple of things in the past few years, but not nearly enough. There’s this huge part of my identity that she’s never going to know.

On my birthday, I went with a friend to see Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal in concert (this is relevant, I swear). Anthony Rapp lost his mother while he was in Rent. He talked about how he struggled with choosing what show to do next, because he knew it would be the first thing he did that she wasn’t a part of. It’s nice, at least, to hear someone else eloquently express the thing you’re feeling.

I’m so thrilled that this is happening. I’m thrilled that it’s Apex, which is one of the first short-story publications I found that I consistently enjoyed reading. I’m thrilled that I’m getting paid for this little thing I did. I’m feeling confident that yes, maybe I can do this. All of that is joyful, and it’s also complicated and hard. And that’s just the way of things.

So come the new year, I’ll be celebrating in my own way, and in my own time.

* See Child 10, The Twa Sisters

This summer, in an attempt to preserve some of my garden bounty (holyshit the cucumbers) and feel like a productive and capable human being, I started canning things. This is very much in line with my other hobbies that were once critical life skills, like spinning yarn and making edible things grow.

But botulism is scary. I’m shit at following recipes and have the attention span of a hummingbird. This isn’t really news, but it certainly hasn’t helped my very real fear of killing myself with canned goods. Given the crazy-high acid content (I omit onions in everything, so all my recipes are vinegar overkill) I don’t think it’s likely, but still. How the hell did people survive without scientifically tested recipes from the government and the fine folks at Ball? How does humanity still exist, given all the things that could have and should have wiped us out? We are parasites, guys.

Anyway, so far this season I’ve managed to pack away:

• 5 pints roasted tomato salsa
• 6 half-pints salsa verde
• 6 pints dill pickles
• 2.5 pints sweet pickles
• 2 pints pickled jalapenos
• 5 half-pints sweet cucumber relish
• 4 half-pints raspberry jam

I still have to turn some ground cherries into jam, but overall I’m pretty proud of what I’ve managed to do with very little planning and no prior knowledge. Here’s to learning new skills, particularly ones that will be useful in the forthcoming apocalypse.

This happened a while ago, but I wanted to share it. Partly because I don’t want to forget it, and partly because this blog could use some funny.

A while back I was sitting outside at Starbucks writing. I do this almost every day, and in the course of my outdoor working adventures, I’ve had lots of people come up and talk to me.

(What it is about a woman sitting alone, completely absorbed in her work, that invites other people to come chat? The resting bitch face? The glazed-over eyes? The furious typing?)

Anyway, on this particular day, an older man comes scooting up  and asks what I’m working on.

Me: Oh, I’m a writer. I’m working on a book. 

Him: What do you write? 

Me: Fantasy

Him (wide-eyed): Like… like Playboy? 

Me: … 

Me: Um… no. Fantasy, as in … like… dragons and stuff. 

Him (nodding knowingly): Oh! Like nature!

Me: …

Me (sighing internally): … Yes. Like nature.

So there you have it, folks. What I do is important. It’s educational. Look out, David Attenborough.

Really, though, I’m delighted that so many people equate the word fantasy with erotica. Can we start teaching genre fiction in schools? Pretty please?