Four months

I sent my 6 page story The Shadows in Westport (have I mentioned I can't write titles? Because I can't) off to Crow Toes Quarterly today. I really hope they like it. I really even more hope they get back to me sooner than the 4 month long reading time posted on their website. I addressed the envelope in Edward Gorey letters in the vain attempt to get some extra wierd points. These people, I'm assuming, are all about wierd. They employ a "staff villian."

The absolute most I could hope, though, is some reader in Little, Brown picking up a copy, enjoying it, and then calling me to ask "Hey, have you got a novel I could peruse?" and i'd say "Yes I Do!" and then of course everything falls in place from there.

That will never happen.

Overreaction

Reading further along, I realize I am being overly critical. Much can be salvaged, and quite a bit more is pretty dang good. Of course, the part I've always disliked is still awful, but now looking at it I find I've been aproaching it the wrong way. Yes, otherwise intelligent parents abandoning their child to a completely new town an entire world away is difficult to pull off, but my previous answer was only a bandaid. I think I can restructure everything so the reader won't even find a scar.

And yes, it will still be work. But this is the fun kind. I thought I'd thrash this baby and end up with a mummy. I'm going to end up with a frankenstein, bitches.

Started work...

On a thing I'm not supposed to be working on. Well, according to me. And I've got about as much authority on my own workings as a ice cube has on the sun. Anyway, I've started a scary story for children about a tattoo that's taken root under some kid's skin and slowly spreading. Hopefully it's the sort of scary Crow Toes Quarterly is looking for. But then, I'm never sure on what scary is. I don't like scary movies.

It's not something I expect to ever be paid for, but I figure if I can get it into print I won't feel like such a douche saying "yeah, I write." It just makes me think of that spaced episode where Daisy is in the Cukoo's Nest job and finds out "they're all writers, Daisy. Even Billy." and Billy stutters out "I had a p-p-p-poem in n-n-n-n-n-ninty eight."