Onwards & Upside-Downwards

Sorry about that

Taken from my living room, standing on my head (not really)

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What year is it? . . . Do Crocs still exist?

Dammit.

What about physical books? Are they still being bound and sold?

Phew.

Wait, who’s the president? Don’t answer that.

Why is it so bright outside? And hot! I just plugged in my air conditioner. It’s effing May.

Right, well, a lot can happen in nineteen days. For instance, I’d been writing a short essay and had intended to publish it ten days ago, but it inadvertently turned into a novel and swept me off my feet. I’m still in the honeymoon phase, dizzy and dumb, thinking it will be different this time, foolishly convinced this is the one. I will share the first two to three thousand words soon, i.e., when it’s ready.

Despite how much I loathe the semi-permanence of serialization, I’ll serialize the novel here. The first installment will be free. Each piece you see will be a rough draft, not rough as in sloppy. I mean, if I like the book when it’s finished—if I finish it—I will undoubtedly revise it several times before deleting every trace of it.

I’m excited.

Be excited. Be-be excited.

What’s the story about?

It’s classified. But no, serializing a novel already limits the writer in various ways. Changes can’t be made as freely. Once an idea is published, I must carry it forward, or I’d have to kill the cast and burn the stage. If I were to reveal my intentions, I would feel even more restricted, as though I’d promised to do things a certain way. It’s best to keep you in the dark.

Besides, promises give me hives.

I’m sorry I haven’t published a word in nineteen 21 days. Are you angry? You seem angry. Fine, you’re not angry. Whatever you say. Well, then stop making that face. Oh, now you’re angry. C’mon. Don’t let’s quibble over somebody’s inability to publish unfinished work. Words must be pondered and caressed. Sentences must gestate. Paragraphs thrive when revised: not this one, clearly. But hey, this is a highly educational piece. Too much dazzle might divert your attention from its valuable information.

You’re still mad, aren’t you?

Are we breaking up?

But . . . you make me want to be a better person.

I’ve been busy. Okay . . .

Doing what?

Working on an apology.

Building book towers.

Napping.

Peeing in the dark.

Cleaning in the daylight.

Perfecting my girly (messy) bun.

Other times, I take my plunger for long walks and choke on carbon monoxide cooked in clunkers that only operate in warm weather. Their exhausts sound like a firing line cracking shots asynchronously at free-range chickens while a deranged sculptor wields a chainsaw and tries to carve rubber tires filled past their max psi.

Okay, for real, I’m reading a manuscript for a talented writer whose bio on book covers lists accolades I dream of achieving. I kid you not. It’s by far the best manuscript I’ve had the opportunity to read and evaluate. I don’t want to get all weird and gushy about it, especially because—I’ve said too much.

If you know anybody looking for an editor and think I might be a good fit, please drop my name.

When not writing cover letters or working, I do my best to keep an eleven-year-old alive. So far, so good, though she gets cranky when hungry and is averse to the word no. I often must remind her I have no idea what I’m doing. Cut me some slack, I say; this is my first time being a parent. Just as this is my first time managing a newsletter. I am learning as I go.

For those who’ve stuck around, thank you for your patience.

If you’re new here, welcome. I don’t always post nonsense, I promise (crap, now my neck itches). If you want something better to read, here’s an essay I didn’t pick randomly:

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Also, I’m so delighted to write fiction again that I removed the paywall from the following short story. I will eventually revise it and fix its weaknesses, starting with the title. The story, however, has been well-received by readers.

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Back to work.