chicating

My last biggest publication was in the wake of the Great Recession, and I have submitted to that Big Mystery Magazine...don't know, between every six months and every year and a half. Never got a ton of love back, but they like my baby-shower caper thing? Maybe?(Women editors are essential for my Southwestern faux Lippman side.)

a comic novel I picked for the title, Ms. Demeanor. (As a reader, I am a sucker for a wacky title, maybe because I find titling my own stuff so difficult.)

The latest memoir about writing school from Stephanie Land. I'm kind of jealous of her for getting to Transcend Circumstances and all that jazz, although not because she's not good at what she does. Just wish my education could have been life-changing too.(Well, I guess I got a couple new ways of saying "I'm probably screwed," and a few different analyses of how it's not my fault that help a lot less now than when I was on fire learning about them.Not exactly the metamorphosis the brainy ugly duckling hopes for most!) And, dag, I'm fifty and still not a swan. Guess that's not going to happen either, huh? probably I'm just a factory-second duck. Quack!

Maybe I'll find some reason why I shouldn't be jealous.
Here's one that made me feel like "What year is this?"--going to my neighborhood Barnes and Noble picking up Jennifer Weiner's latest.

James McBride is trying to make literary/suspense a thing...if he could, it would only be good for a writer like me.(although he has the black experience to work from in ways that I wouldn't, obvs.)
Ironically, my first submission of 2024 went out yesterday, on a fairy-tale theme, but sort of a modern Little Mermaid. Not sure if I'm gonna press that point as hard as I did last year since it didn't lead me to anything, and since I'm no longer a kid trying not to wet her pants, little treats at the end of the end of the week/month aren't that motivating, in and of themselves. What I want to feel like is an artist showcasing her talents. Not a hoople crossing state lines to buy fricking lottery tickets(if it'll help, universe, my guidance counselor is probably dead. I can skip telling her to suck it now.)

I am an apostate to the American Church of Put Yourself Out There(or else the synod hasn't accepted my existence yet. Because I have tried on multiple levels, and, well, I end up back here. A lot.) I might go off about that a little more, but my luck is that my going full Festivus would be the one thing I ever did that the world paid attention to, so instead of UnDiscovered Talent On The Margins I'd get to be Bitter Old Crank Not that there's no overlap.

And I'm not sure the thing I wrote for this flash fiction contest was my most confident work, but still hurts a little, even with the new, happy-talk rejection slips that tell us how great we are(Does this truly help anyone? Except that poor girl on "The Middle" that everything made happy for no reason? Sue Heck, that's her name...)
Went against previous habit and started rewriting new "Riding Hood" piece, just to feel in my heart there aren't only two things I can do--If I love it, I may submit somewhere else. If I don't microfiction is small enough to bury.