Madness

I’ve dropped the ball on updating this. That’s not very professional. Though, I don’t suppose I really want to fake being some stuffy, “professional” writer; I’d rather just be myself. That’s a can of worms.

Anyway. 

Despite a multitude of other shite going on, I am amped and thoroughly stoked in the writing department. I edited and revamped The Novel That Will Get Me Published. I am really excited about it. I’m sending it off to a new indie pub that I really like. I’m hoping for good things. 

I’ve also begun work on a couple other novels that had been sitting at the wayside. Yeah, boiii. Really excited about that, too. 

Also, I’m revisiting my sci-fi short story collection. I’ve decided to drop a couple of stories from it. I’m not happy with them and I’d rather not force the whole thing. I want to be pleased and ready with the collection. So, if that means I have to wait a little longer until I write a few better stories, let it be so. 

Still waiting to hear back from some mags regarding prose I sent off. I suppose if I haven’t heard by now…. HA. 

And, uh, I’ll try to get back into the swing of things here. Though I’m not promising anything this month because it’s the NCAA tourney and well, March Madness… you know.

The Sun Looks Brighter from the Inside of a Jail Cell

So that publisher rejected my ms. Not altogether surprising, I know. But, eh, it’s okay; it was rad that they even asked to read it….Also, I’ve already sent a query to another one. (I got a list a mile long! The industry will be so sick of my name after I’m through with it! HA.)

Anyway.

The rejection doesn’t even bother me (though it sucked). I’m bothered by my own creative apathy. Not sure what’s going on, but I can’t and don’t want to write anything. Except I have tons of ideas. I just don’t want to write any of it because I think there isn’t any point; it’ll only come out like shit anyway. Stupid reason….The whole shebang is kind of like being stuck in a jail cell, except you’re not really stuck because the door’s wide-open, and you could escape if only you took a step.

But.

Reading all your stuff is rather inspiring. (Though, also more depressing because your stuff is helluva lot better than mine.) So, maybe I’ll try to write something. NaNoWriMo is coming up, too, and I’d really like to do it this year instead of making up grandiose excuses for why I can’t do it. What am I gonna do instead? Watch TV? Nothing good is on anymore…’cept “The Black List.” That show’s cool.

Also, I’ve been binge-Netflixing (that’s a fun word) “Luther.” Check that shit out. Now.

Happy as a Chondestes grammacus

Hey, I did it. I finished The Novel that Will Get Me Published. It was kind of surprising, actually. Finished is around midnight, Monday morning this week. When I realized I was done, I just kind of stared at my computer screen for a while. I think the shock has worn of now…I think. Hey, come on, the thing took me eight years to write–but I did most of it in the past year. And now it’s done.  The first book I wrote in a year; the second in five years. (Those ones suck. I don’t want to talk about those.) But this one is weird. It’s different. It’s…special. Aww. No, seriously, it is.

Now I can’t look at it for a couple days. But then I’ll go back and read it. Then I’ll start editing. I already know who I’d like to send it to for critiquing. Then after that: some more editing! Then it’ll be time to put together publishing packages [which I remember so fondly]. (Oh, look how excited I am! I’m already thinking of everything I get to do next! I’m happy as a lark. A darling lark!… ‘the hell kinda bird is a lark anyway?)

In honor, I suppose this poem is appropriate:

Scriveners
JCD Kerwin

My pen writes
in a different way
each time I hold it,
as if to say,
“They’re not done yet.”

(December, 2011)

And my break’s over. Stay off drugs, kids.

Writing Carbs

You know that Novel That Will Get Me Published?

Well I must be buttah, because I’m on a roll!

And not one of those shitty rolls they reuse at those quick, turnover chain  joints you direct mid-western tourists to go when they demand you tell them a “real Italian place.” Nah. The kind of roll Sal has his guys make fresh at that small, family-owned, family-run place you went on your first date like six years ago; the one off the beaten path, far down a couple blocks that only you and a handful of people know about that sells chicken Parmesan like your mom used to make when she still cooked like she gave a damn.

Yeah, I’m on that kind of a roll.

Hell yeah.