Reminding myself I still write

Because I need a reminder from time to time that there's more to life than charts and graphs.  Don't we all, right?

So two events coming up in the next week:
Indoor Voices by 826LA, a reading series by the great people at 826 where myself and a few other people with too much spare time will be reading/speaking the hell out of some poetry.

Also:
Word Salad LA, a monthly storytelling event that's $5 to get in (only $5!) and treats you to 7 sexy writers telling you stories about how interesting their lives are.  It's 10 minutes a piece, which makes the whole event last a really kind of convenient amount of time
8pm,

The Talking Stick

1411 Lincoln Blvd.

Venice, CA 90291

It will actually be my first foray into the storytelling universe and we'll see how that goes.  Also, it's the explanation why I wrote a blog post.  Because I gave them this blog as my website so I need to put up the illusion that I still have a pulse.

So how about that blogging?

I'd really like to do a statistical analysis of my intentions.  For example, I frequently intend to go to the gym.  But I have a few dozen rolls that testify to the strength of that intention.  I also frequently intend to better myself with a hefty piece of literature.  And I have several completed video games that show my progress towards betterment.

Then there's this blog.  And the three ones I had before it.

I think there's an expiration date on my enthusiasm that corresponds directly to the difficulty of the task and the frequency with which I'm expect to do it.  Let's see if we can regress this.

Time before failure = B0 + B1(difficulty) + B2(expected frequency) + B3(level of self-doubt) + B4(amount of sex I'm getting) + B5(Amount of work I'm putting off) + B6(Whether the task involves the verbs 'blog' 'tweet' or 'facebook').  

And something something p-values.  I hate my life right now, that's what I'm trying to say with this post.

Anyway, I'm gonna try and jump start this thing like a failing marriage.  And like a failing marriage, I'll probably cheat on it with other blogs.  Or something.  Metaphoric capacity has been replaced by regressions in my brain-space.

More later.

$40 famous

That's right, boys and girls.

I'm a published author.

More direct link: Anthony's Room

How you like them apples?

I mean, to be fair, I was published once before.  But that didn't earn me any money and is therefore not worth mentioning.

Just kidding.  Money isn't everything.  It just separates the successful from the...bloggers.  BOOM! Take that, Huffington Post.  And me.

So this is kind of exciting.  It's at least a little shot in the arm for my publishing attempts.  I feel confident enough to pay $15 of the money I just made to enter a writing contest I definitely won't win.  Don't worry, a few more crushing defeats and I'll be back to self-righteous posts about sadness.

GO TEAM ME!

Bittersweet tastes like sick

God, I hate all this bittersweet drama in movies nowadays.  Not because it's badly done.  Because badly done bittersweet ends up looking something like this:

OH MAN, I'M SO PRETTY, BUT, OH, MY HEART!

Fuck you, Justin Timberlake, nobody thinks you have human feelings.  Celebrities operate in a realm of superhuman emotions, where their problems are exquisite delights for us ugly commoners.

No, what I mean is shit like Crazy Heart and 500 Days of Summer.  The kind of stuff that is specifically engineered to make you feel absolutely miserable.  But it's okay! They're SMILING at the end.  They got absolute fuck-all of what they wanted, but hey, ain't that just the way life is?

No, fuck you, Hollywood, I want the best job, the best family and I want to be the smartest and most talented person in the universe all without putting any real emotional investment or effort into anything.

I'm starting a new genre.  It will be called "Screw you, I get everything".  I will film the protagonist breezing through life with girls throwing themselves at him and Fortune 500 companies chasing after him with lifetime contracts.  Banks will error in his favor, always.  It will never rain on his parties, his outdoor excursions or his parades, because there will be parades, the man will have however many parades he damn well pleases.

Even better, he will never want anything he can't have.
He will take what is given to him, shit-eating grin about it.
When people bump him in the street, he will wonder at how the stranger knew that he wanted to be bumped exactly that way at exactly that time.
When another man steals his girlfriend and fills his harddrive with videos of them having sex, the man will sit and watch every video marveling at how perfect a way this was to fill an afternoon.
When he's fired, he didn't want the job.
When he's bankrupt, he'll think about how unimportant money is.
When he's shivering starving in the street,
He'll smile,
Nod his head,
And say
"This is just what I wanted."
Dramatic music.
Fade to black

I hate movies.

This is why we write

Inner life is one of those things.  A thing that's so all-encompassingly important, yet you can't touch it, you can't taste it and you only see flashes of it in the drawn-out silhouettes of your dreams.

We can measure brain waves.  Oh yes we can.  But it doesn't mean a damn things, it is a paint-by-numbers approximation that, yes, red goes here, sometimes, in the right conditions.  It's not the magnetism of our blood.  It's not the radiation in our veins it is painfully unreal.

I guess what I mean is you can think whatever the fuck you want and it's okay.  Because on the outside, you are still white boy age twenty six smiling surely.  I mean, if you're me.  If you're not me, the overlay might get a bit more problematic.  Our faces are like burqa, honestly.  More than that, because sometimes you can't even see our eyes.

It is 2 AM and I can't sleep, my head like an inflatable mattress, it's never comfortable too full.  I need to open the valve and catharse.  Is that a word? Verb form of catharsis? The internet is no help here and I'll be damned if I turn to the OED.  Bootylicious? Really? I mean, I know no one uses you anymore, but this is not the way to get attention.  It's like the loser kid at school smoking pot to be cool.  Then going on to major in English and History and eventually go to Hopkins.

See what I did there?

Can't let an entry go without insulting myself.

(This inanity brought to you by David Oshinsky, who recommended that everyone write 300 words a day.  Don't worry.  This kind of can-do inspiration usually wears off after a couple days.)

The effects of rejection

So, let's get back to the writing stuff.  If I wanted a livejournal, I would have opened a livejournal.  No, this is Blogger, it's held to a higher standard.

Now, I've been rejected so many times from so many different magazines that I've started trying to guess what the rejection will say.  How will they start, with the bland sort of

"I hope this finds you well"

Or will they tell me how incredibly small my chances were of getting accepted in the first place

"We receive so many submissions"

Will they soften the blow?

"And while your submission is excellent"

Or will they just go at it

"This is not what we're looking for"

Will they wish me well?

"We wish you luck in your future endeavors?"

Or will they do something like

"Cheers!
- The Drabblecast Team"

Yeah, that last one was for real.  Cheers! You're rejected.  It's like breaking up with someone and nudging them going "Good knowin' ya, eh?"

Or nice while it lasted or something like that.

Anyway, one of the side effects of rejection is acceptance.

I got accepted to be published in Underground Voices Magazine, which is not so much a magazine as it is a website.  But it's something! It's $40 of something.  That's right, it's my first time getting paid for my writing.  I'm gonna go spend that money on booze and drugs.  Just like a real artist!

Another side effect of rejection is this:
"Dear Mixer Magazine,
  I'm not going to lie to you.  This story will be published someday by someone.  That someone could be you.  That's the opportunity I'm presenting today, the opportunity to publish this story.  Think about how you'd feel if later on in life you woke up, had your morning coffee and set about reading your daily intake of literary magazines and suddenly BAM! There's my story.  Printed in a magazine that is most definitely not yours.  How would you deal with the regret?

  So do yourself a favor.  Don't live a life filled with regret.  Publish this story."

A writer's apathy is a fearsome thing.

Aggressive impersonality

There is something aggressively impersonal about online classes.

The drop down box says I can laugh
Raise my hand
Applaud
Or agree.

The professor can deny my request to speak.

If this is where higher education is headed, count me out.

Actually, don't.  Now I want to be a professor even more.  I can give an hour of lecture from my couch and get paid six figures.  Cha-ching!