Wave of Mutilation

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It’s been a few years, but I’m remembering the last time I was in a fistfight. That moment when someone’s fist connects with your face is unforgettable. You look up, the knuckles are into your nose, cheek, and eye socket. The pain overwhelms your senses. The cartoons lie. You don’t see stars or hear birds. It’s blackness. Everything goes to a sheet of dark while hurt becomes your master.

That’s how I feel today. Don’t worry, things at home are great. My blues, to quote a Maid Marian, are regarding my writing.

Since the first of August, I started receiving feedback on my words. I joined a critique group and weathered the storm of good natured, constructive criticism. Then I started entering short stories contests, applied to two online magazines, and asked three people who are published authors to judge my stuff. The running total is 4 rejections and some harsh reality regarding the two stories being serialized on MY BLOG CAN BEAT UP YOUR BLOG - Robots and Helene. They need more work than I thought.

I’ve been writing almost every day for 10 months. On average, pencil has been on parent six days a week since mid January. Ninety percent of what I’ve written, you all haven’t seen. That 10 percent is being punched out like a Mike Tyson opponent in the mid 1980s.

The worst blogs on the internet are the ones where people whine in Dear Diary style. You know the ones. They read like Alanis Morisette or Conor Oberst journals. Woe is me and pass the chardonnay with black fly. Guess what, sports fans, that’s the category this post can fall. I have no funny. There’s not a life lesson to ponder. Even the song I will post, while good, is typical of what a Dear Diarist would play. Writing those posts every once in a while is great, just not every one. So, I’ll try not to make a habit of this.

I have a lot of work to do, professionally and personally. For now I’m not changing a damn thing. I am using the word damn, which shows my frustration. I might call my reviewers doodyheads but I promise I’ll do that offblog. No reason to work blue.

Before I get back to work, I’m going to see my 8 year old daughter beat up little boys in judo class. I may have her punch and kick me. At least it will cease being metaphorical for me.

 I just wrote 444 words on why I suck. Beat that.

Today’s song is excellent. I almost used Where Is My Mind? or Debaser. They’re my second and third favorite Pixies songs. This is my first. It’s my blog and I’ll play my Pixies if I want too. Here’s Wave of Mutilation. It’s how I feel. Thanks for reading, I love you all.

Mean Bone

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He struggled to open the manila envelope.  A white sheet of paper read “your novel has been rejected”. He threw the document into the trash and walked out of the post office. Across the street was a book store where he would often write. He walked to his car, unlocked the door, and removed a blue notebook and two sharpened pencils.

He approached the window of the shop and saw a greater insult than the letter. The book on display, without tact and proud of its’ whimsy was , A Shore Thing, by Snooki. He walked two blocks to the nearest bar.

******blogger’s note*********

This is my response to velvet’s verbosity at http://www.velvetverbosity.com ‘s 100 word challenge. The one word prompt was WHIMSY. This was inspired by a rough night I had in critique group. It’s okay. I suck at editing and needed to hear it. The latest episode of the robot story will get a rewrite and this big boy will be just fine. Every writer worth a damn goes through rejection and critisicm.

Today’s song is just mean spirited, booze swilling, screw the world, Slash playing, rock and roll. It’s from his underrated band, Slash’s Snakepit. Play it loud and keep reading. You’re feeding and stroking an ego that appreciates it. Mean Bone is about that bad place you go to get your killer instinct to keep going.

Here’s Slash with Mean Bone