Consider Me Hungry

I'm going through another rough patch in my writing life, which inevitably involves me bemoaning the fact that everything I've written is garbage, my publication rate is near zero (technically zero), and I'm not doing enough of anything to warrant--something.

The frustration mounts and I start writing ten different short stories at once. I sit and focus far too deeply on Whitney. I go on crazy list-making sprees of all the journals I haven't sent to and now, because it's August and many aren't reading, I get even more angry. I re-read all my old rejection letters in an attempt to find clues as to why it didn't happen for me. I especially re-read (over and over again) my e-mail rejection from The New Yorker:

We regret that we are unable to use the enclosed material. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider it.

The Editors

All I wind up doing is locking myself up to the point where I don't even want to speak, just because I hate the language so much, and I resign myself to the fact that everything up until now has been a sad attempt at something that just isn't in the cards for me.

--

And then I make some minor break-throughs (a good first sentence, an edited chapter) and the stress levels drops in stages.

And I read another book that rejuvenates me (right now, I'm reading a JR Angelella suggestion--Dirty Havana Trilogy by Pedro Juana Gutierrez) and eventually I'm back to believing I can make a go of all this.

So where am I going with this?

Well--

Shit, why not make this a confession?

Part of my publication frustration stems from the fact that, despite my love of technology, I'm biased against Online Literary Journals.

I hold back my "best" work for those antiquated, glossy, tangible publications (with suspect reader numbers, shoddy marketing, and laughable distribution power), all because of the name, the power, the prestige that these dinosaurs still have over me.

(And reading that John Cheever published in The New Yorker 115 times in his lifetime didn't help one fucking bit, I'll tell you that.)

As I print up my stories and my cover letters and mail out my little manilla envelopes, I ignore the date on the calendar.

I ignore just how vast of an audience the Internet can be.

I ignore how much easier and how much time is saved submitting to OLJ's.

I ignore that the time is now and holding back my "best" stuff only prevents my name from getting out there, and holds me back from writing newer, better stuff.

I ignore all of this as I spend my days listening to music on my iPod, doing fifteen different things on my iPhone, reading sports columnists (along with every other news source) on Twitter, and talking to my friends on Facebook.

I ignore the fact that I've embraced the 21st century in almost every aspect of my life except the one area that I love and want to succeed in the most.

--

I read an article in today's NY Times by Brad Stone that hit me in the face like a fucking brick. The lead was all I needed to see:

There was a time when most aspiring musicians had the same dream: to sign a deal with a major record label.

I remember this time too--well, except it was just a record label (a super-Indie, to be exact). Lord knows I was far too sophisticated for the majors, even then. But still, that was my dream. And now that dream has shifted into a different artistic realm, but the message remains eerily the same.

So from here on out, I'm done looking down.

Consider me converted. Consider me in the know.

There's a quote in the piece from Radiohead's manager, Brian Message, where he says:

“Artists are at the point where they realize going back to the old model doesn't make any sense. There is a hunger for a new way of doing things.”

Consider me hungry.


More soon.

JS