30 or so Stories I’ve written in 2018 that have been rejected: Why I Write

(For the record this isn’t a story and it was accepted. However after numerous failed attempts to upload and several emails to the editor, I ended up saying fuck it.)

writing-1149962_640

I suck at writing. I cheated on my spelling testing in the second grade. My reading comprehension is garbage. When I read fast, “wrods look lkie thsi”. In high school, I worked on a paper for two weeks straight only to get a note from my teacher telling me I didn’t even try. I scored a 2 out of 12 on the writing portion of the ACT. I got beat out for a non paid editors position for a small College newspaper by someone who’s first language isn’t English. All this begs the question, why am I writing this essay? Because I have to.

No, nobody is forcing me to do this. I like to write, so that’s what I do. But this doesn’t make me a “writer”. That’s a word my Aunt uses at Thanksgiving to talk about the novel she’s worked on for ten years. To me those are just six, ego boosting letters, that give other people permission to be a dick at a workshop. I don’t need anyone’s permission. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck if you read this or not. To me, the act of writing is it’s own reward.

So what am I trying to accomplish? Wow, talk about a tough question. I feel like most people would say something along the lines of “I want my voice to be heard.” That’s a solid reason. Everyone wants to leave their mark on the little planet. And now with all these technological avenues it’s easier than ever. But that’s not me.

See, you have to understand this wasn’t ever the plan. I was a failed musician who bitched in notebooks and found relief. I’m an avid online dater who uses imaginative language to set himself apart. I’m an Engineer who sends daily project updates with a story arch. So what am I trying to accomplish? Shit, I don’t know. Writing chose me, not the other way around. I’m just playing the hand I was dealt.

I submit my work because it keeps me honest. The longer that something stays in the drawer, the more my mind will play with it’s value. Idea’s aren’t stocks. They’re for everyone. Why not submit? There’s nothing to lose. Getting a gently worded letter by an overworked, underpaid editor doesn’t mean that was a bad idea. It just means I believe in it. That’s all.

Plus, my goal isn’t to write one great piece, it’s to get better at the craft. So when I get a rejection I know it’s time to turn up the heat. I’ll sit down and ask the tough questions. How bad do I believe in this? How many red-eyed nights have you stayed up pushing that pen around? How many early mornings have I gotten up to edit? How many rejections have I received this month? This week? I already know the answer to all of these questions, and it’s not enough.

It’s funny but when I think about it, everything has been right there in front of me the whole time. It always has bee. The feeling of accomplishment when I finish a piece. The smile I get after writing a great sentence. The focus I get after a rejection. All of it is right there and no one can stop me to go after it. So I ask myself again, how bad do I want it? Bad enough to take a break from my fiction writing to type of this essay? Bad enough to get goosebumps on the first draft? Bad enough to red line two drafts this morning? Well, I don’t know about anyone else but I want it bad.

…And that’s why I write.

Slamming your Dick in a Desk Door: Free Writing Pt.2

mesh-64984_1920

As I was crossing 9th street my ass vibrated.

The email read: “I need calculation done ASAP!”

Well that’s going to be tough. My hour train ride was 15 minutes away. At best, I’ll be there at 9. Screw it. I am in no hurry. I’ve decided already that I’m busting out of this joint. Not just the job but the entire State. I’m ready to roll.

This weekend I started getting my ducks in a row. Nothing crazy, just some small planning on the financial back end. The plan is simple. Keep pushing the momentum forward until about March. That’s when the Hammer drops. That’s when things will get serious.

I’ve done a bunch of these moves before. None of it is really novel or rocket science. Step one, find a job. Step two, find a place. Step three, pack your shit and go. Everyone seems to think it’s much harder, shit even me. But in reality, that’s all it takes.

Honestly, I hadn’t meant for this to be a free write but that’s the way it goes. You can’t plan your thoughts. I have a couple pretty funny ideas that I’ll work on later when I’m finally done with house arrest at work. Until then.

 

You Should Message me If…. Pt. 1

diver-1081987_1920

Part 2

You’ve ever jumped head first into ice cold water on a dare. But not just any dare. A legit game of high stakes Truth or Dare, that for some reason the unthinkable happened. Both your ex and your new boyfriend, Jared with the great jawline and weird twitch you’ve asked about but received no explanation, decided to show up to this party.

Oh all parties, it had to be Homecoming. You don’t want throw a match between the two and light up a fight. But you’ll be GOD DAMN if your gonna lose this break up. Not before the Crowning at least. So you say ‘Dare’ with a wiff of ‘I still miss you’. Which leads you to now, showing that you still got it. That you’re not afraid of a little water. Sooo aren’t afraid to jump into the same lake that everyone knows Steve shit in back in 6th Grade. Why he did it? Even a mystery to him. But the point is, he fired off a steaming pile of brown goop and a handful of student council members witnessed it’s glory. Many people wait for fame, Steve went after his. You even heard that the ten year olds next to him didn’t even flinch. Kids are gross.

So yea, that’s why.

Slamming Your Dick in a Desk Door: Free Writing Pt.1

desk-2158142_1920

Why do they all look the same?

I mean I get that every girl has different aspects. Different phases that make them look or act a certain way. But it like they all want to throw that shit away and look like this idealized version. Or worse, look the exact opposite and shove it in your face. Two extremes. I just want someone in the middle. Why does my writing feel like a boring narrative of observations? I did I write a paragraph of a short story an then get back to journals of my internal dialog. I’ll you why.

Girls in spandex.

Thanks winter. You’ve completely fucked my entire conscious creativity stream like a…….

Fuck see. The same chick walked back out after grabbing her whatever the fuck breakfast and overly emphasized her strut all the way back to the Jeep Cherokee. I don’t get it. Every girl drives a Jeep Cherokee. Back in the day it was a Grand Am or sometimes a Jetta. But all that stopped after Jessy was shot by Johnny Chen’s crew. Isn’t that some bullshit? The best character of the entire series dies within the first movie. The poor guy coulda gotten a paid like the rest of those fuckers. But no. Michelle Rodriguez was smart.  Lost tanked, Resident Evil was shit. Home girl did what she had to do to get paid. Bring me back she said!

Girl in a blue vest running past. Here I am again. Lost train of thought. Why a vest? I never understood the vest concept. I’ve never felt like I’ve needed my torso to be warmer than my extremities. No one has ever gotten frostbite on their hips. It doesn’t fucking work like that. Speaking of frostbite, here comes an elder Asian lady dead sprinting like the terminator. Her arms are locked in her armpits. She looks on a mission. Almost took out the group of girls in front of her. Grabbed her drink and dead sprinted back, cut thru traffic. The horns are buzzing at her. She’s yelling something. Probably about the message she’s late to give.

I’d watch more but my attention was taken elsewhere. Booty shorts walking into work across the street. You have to appreciate the stern commitment to dress code these days. It’s 20 below, snowing and blowing outside. None of that will stop a guy’s hard on. Nor the extra money he’ll drop for snapshots in the spank bank later. Now back to garbage in my head. I had a few good ideas last week. I had a funny one today at the gym. But now the keyboard is out. I’m even typing. Words are forming. Hell, one person might start to read, then probably hang himself out of the sheer stupidity of how bad it is. He would go to extreme lengths of making his noose. It’s be a completely custom design that has DARBY is fucking retard braided in different colored yarn, just so everyone has no questions as to why it was done. There would be a massive investigation where I would finally get a bunch of views on this site. CSI would study the shit out of the sub-communication of this post. Eventually placing the blame on Fast and the Furious franchise. Asking questions like how did we not see any of this? Clearly the writing was on the wall.

Still dribbling shit on the keyboard. I took a long pause because two deaf guys were signing next to me. Each gesture made me nervous. The pound on the table was about me. This guy sucks at writing. This guy get too distracted by all the women walking by. This guy can’t even pay a fucking tension to his keyboard. This guy is so thirsty he doesn’t notice the grotesque chins on the girl walking by. He only stares from the chest down. This guy should use that noose in the above paragraph. It’s all garbage. I’m done typing. It’s over fuck being a writer. I’m burning my notebooks. I’m getting rid of my blogs. I’m gonna stop placing “Mark Twain’s long lost hope” in the occupation category for my tax returns. It’s over. This shit is fucking stupid. I’m giving up on this dream. I’m never writing anything again. Not even my name.

 

….an hour later I finished a story about an actress wearing a vest.