major MAJOR fail

I realized two days ago that my gmail signature link to BusySmartyPants was wrong.
As in, missing a key character.
As in, when ya clicked on the link, it went nowhere.
Fail.
A total fail.
A major, MAJOR fail.
I cannot even begin to guess how long the link has been wrong.
And I never double-checked it, apparently.
And no one said anything.
My visibility is nil.
Zero.
Nada.
Nothing.
I feel invisible.
Less than visible, if that's possible.
As though the slightest glimmer of possible visibility has been deducted throughout time.
Fuck. 

more more new construction

The odyssey of memoir continues (see posts #1 and #2 here).

• Last week, Lucky, by Alice Sebold, the true story of AS's rape and assault as a college student in the 1980's. I re-read it in a day, marveling at her fearlessness in recounting what happened, and continued to happen. The rare combination of immediacy and retrospection. I did wish she'd lingered more in the aftermath, where she battled addiction and some emotional disorders, but overall it's one of the best I've read.
• I'm also about halfway through Martin Amis' Experience. This is my third or fourth re-read. MA is one of my absolute favorites (e.g. The Rachel Papers, The Information). I fold over the bottom edge of pages I wish to return to ("is it you, is it now?"), and already the book is accordioned with bent page-edges. He writes with depth and precision, he's funny, he's heartbreaking, he's honest. As a writer, I despair at just how truly talented he is and as a reader, well, I can't stop reading. 
• I wish I had so much enthusiasm for another book I've also halfway read, Boy Erased. I'm struggling. The subject matter is so familiar--kid raised in a hyper-religious household, questions of sexuality and power and faith. And yet--it's dull. Nothing compels me forward. It lacks specificity. I feel the author holding back, even though he's revealing some quite personal information. I'll finish it, but it's a trudge.

Balls, Daddy: video#2

Check out my new video, a brief reading from a story published this past spring in Opossum.

we're in the time

We're in the time I like somewhat best.
Rain. Cool weather. Clouds. Mist. A chilly humidity (save for the Pineapple Express that swept through a few days ago).
All variations of precipitation, and the neighborhood air smells of sodden leaves and soaked, rotting bark, earthy and fecund.
You know the true PNW'ers. We turn our faces to the leaden sky, breathe deeply, and smile.

seen at a ballard bus stop

olde school

Music galore this past week. Yesterday and today, the Freakout Festival. Fifty-odd local bands across a handful of venues. I'm already pooped but having all the fun.
Last Sunday I accompanied two teenage dancers to see the Hiphop Nutcracker performance at the venerable Pantages Theater in Tacoma.
Now, between niece performances and family outings, I've seen the Nutcracker at least a dozen times. I'm familiar. I'm more than familiar.
This was a rad re-interpretation.
Kurtis Blow himself kicked off the show, dapper in a white tux and rhinestone bow tie, MC'ing an old school dance party. Everyone was out of their chairs with they hands in the air.
Then, the grand old ballet. Music the same, sets simplified, dances translated into hiphop choreography.
Check out the clips--it's fresh and energetic and it all makes sense.
In particular, the parents' dance, the couple in the midst of a fight, was so expressive and mournful, it brought me to tears. Without words, with only music and movement, the dancers told a story of love and argument and the sadness of separation.

getting to yes

Ever wondered what it takes to get a piece of fiction published?
I'm not talking New Yorker type of prose. That's a rarefied world and only the lucky few--some talented, some, well, I won't speak ill of the overqualified and undermotivated--but it's a world only the lucky few inhabit.
For the rest of us writers, there's the writing bit. Rough draft, edits, versions, more edits, more versions. Adding, polishing, removing, until you get to the point where you feel ready to share your baby with the world.
Then, you enter the world of submissions. You need to know which journals and magazines are accepting submissions. You need to know about word limits and genres, you need a brief bio and a thick skin because there's no getting to yes without a lot of no's.
Take, for example, my most recent story, "Fast Food and Box Wine," published by Sliver of Stone in October.
I finished what seemed like a solid draft in April 2016. At that point, it was 5700 words long and had a different title. Over the next sixteen months, I submitted the story to 32 different publications, taking a pause now and then, and revising all along the way. Some journals sent form e-mail rejections. Some responded via an online tool. Several  rejected it with comments, or an invitation to submit again.
I submitted it to Sliver of Stone in January 2017.
In September, they wrote to accept the story, now a slim 3500 words.
Publishing feels great! It's a yes, it's acceptance, it's validation, of a sort.
It's also a matter of persistence and timing and yes, writing.
Writing and writing and writing.
You can get to yes, if you're willing to get through a lot of no's first.