The horror. The HORROR.

Forgive me, gods of writing, for I have sinned.

I sent a piece for consideration that I did not thoroughly edit. And holy shit I found some stinkers on my umpteenth read through. 'Due' instead of 'do'? Missing and double words? Kill me now, spare me some of the shame.

And the bitch of it? They wrote back to say it had passed first reading and was being considered for placement. I'm hoping that the story kicked so much ass they could ignore the errors sprinkled in. That's what I will hope to my dying day.

I think I made a blog post about this earlier, where the story has one of these mistakes in the first paragraph. I did not go into the vivid, horrifying detail. I may, should they say 'Clean this up and we'll publish it'. I never will, however, if they reject it after these few months. If that's the case I will delete every single post about such terrible things, and we will never speak of this again. Like a bond that people take after they've killed somebody and dumped them in a river.

So if you're reading this in the future, I have either lied or the piece was accepted.

Wordslinger-117 out.

What a way to start the month.

The usual Tuesday writers group is holding their meeting in the FSU Alumni center this week. I was told this last week.

As I write this, I'm sitting and waiting for the event to kick off. This is not the usual 'get a pint and have a seat' affair. No. I came here wearing a hoodie and torn jeans. Other people are wearing blazers. There is a donation at the door of ten dollars for the Second Harvest charity. I had seven dollars in my pocket. There is a silent auction. A cash bar.

Which wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't given them the seven dollars at the door with a look of "sorry, I'm not from your planet. "

So I sit here in a hooded sweatshirt with a back eye and a swollen chin.

I am sorry to say I've never even heard of our guest of honor Pam Houston. She has at least four books published so I feel like I damn well should. But live and learn.

I feel like a kid again, growing up next to Elon College, sneaking into functions for the free food. Maybe I should just feel slick for getting in at a discount. Suck it, poor people.

I kid of course. But somebody please give me a dollar so I can get a beer.

Wordslinger-117 out.

Update: Pam Houston is awesome. Get her stuff.

Dammit, Poetry

Poetry is something I haven't done since third grade. But can I just say I kicked ass at it? But that is not to say I cannot appreciate poetry. Poetry, good poetry anyway, boils away all the prose and filler in a story and leaves really good imagery. It's the mental slap that makes you pay attention, the metaphor that immediately connects you to the writer's mental picture, the simile that's so familiar and true you can't help but laugh or weep or groan. Most poetry is not good poetry.

That being said, I'm still attending the local writer's meets on Tuesday hoping for fiction each time. Selfish of me, I know. Whenever it's poetry, I groan and die a little inside, but I make the best of it. I hang in there and pick out little phrases, good imagery and other things you'll get from good poetry.

Sometimes it's rather good, and I laugh or clam up the way the writer wanted. Mostly I try to look interested as not to be impolite. I found myself playing with beer coasters tonight, waiting for that electric shock of a great metaphor to hit me. It did hit now and then, like a white ball bouncing around a roulette wheel. But like that same roulette wheel, it missed more than not.

If nothing else, I get to take in the people around me. The traits, the sounds. The ebb and flow of conversation, the details that make these people real. The awkward way a teenage girl holds a cigarette as she tries to look cool. The glances of undergrads at pints of beer, like caged wolves eyeing a cut of steak. The guy sitting next to me talking to somebody about how good fantasy novels have the same hitting points as literary fiction, all in a nasally voice that makes me weep to be in the 'Sci-Fi/Fantasy' bookshelves. The little things.

But if I keep going, it can't ALL be poetry. I think. I hope. And besides, networking - such a God-awful word but one we all have to do in some form or another - can always be done.

I'll keep writing, you keep reading. That's the deal. I'll see what I can do to make it worthwhile.

Wordslinger-117 out.

Dear Fuckface

"Did we say we liked Aurora Wolf in an interview? I'm sorry, we lied about that. Yeaaaahhh it happens. Sometimes. Here's a form rejection."

Let this be a lesson to any brave man or woman, scouring this blog: because an editor of one magazine mentions in an interview that they like another magazine, it does not mean that the story you submitted (and almost had accepted) to said liked magazine will go over well with the other magazine.

Still with me? Good. It all comes down to finding the right match with the right editor, I guess.

So there's a form rejection to add to the stack. But at least now I can submit to other people and see if I can get a match.

There's an analogy in there somewhere about blindfolds and playing craps and something, but I'm too busy to search for it. Must. Submit.

-Wordslinger-117 out.

I've read that one before.

Another day, another two rejection letters. FORM rejection letters. The worst was from Lightspeed Magazine, a magazine that seems to have some good shit. And I want my good shit in their shit.

Their notice was something like 'Thanks, but I'm going to have to pass. It just didn't work for me. Thanks and good luck'. This sounded familiar, so I look at my rejection letter from Fantasy and Science Fiction magazine, and weeeelllll! Lookie here! Butter my butt and call me a biscuit, it is word for word the same letter!

Jesus H. Christ, come on. At least put a 'man' or 'bro' or something in there. Throw me a bone!

But like the man said, you gotta keep on keepin' on. Life's a garden, dig it? They haven't heard the last from me.

Wordslinger-117 out.

Star Wars quotes can get you in trouble...

Nothing to do with writing today. But a case of not paying attention.

The town had a parade today. It was the usual affair: floats, people from the community, et cetera. I stood outside of work with some of the guys and watched it. The Star Wars fans were in attendance, people from the 501st Legion, of the Galactic Empire that is. Pretty cool, bunch of guys in storm trooper uniforms. And a Boba Fett. Always need the Fett man.

I said to one of them: "These are not the droids you're looking for. Move along."

"That only works on the weak minded!" He said through the storm trooper helmet. It was funny. The parade moves up a bit. They're near the end of the line.

The guy in the back of the formation was pretty tall. As Princess Leia says to Luke when she first meets him, I said in the general direction of the guy: "Aren't you a little short to be a storm trooper?"

The tall guy slowly looks over at me like I just said "Hey, ugly, I had sexual relations with your wife." I could tell he was not happy, even with the storm trooper helmet on.

One of the guys I work with, Frankie, says "Dude, that's not cool."

"What?"

"He only has one leg, bro."

The clone trooper in front of the tall one did indeed only have one leg. The other one was a prosthetic.

...fuuuuuuuuuck.

"I didn't... I mean, that wasn't..."

Frankie doesn't know many lines from Star Wars. So by the time I'm trying to explain that no, I wasn't picking on a guy for missing a leg from the knee down by calling him short, it's become one of those "whatever you say" moments.

So this is what George Kastanza felt like. So if anyone is reading this that's in Tallahassee's 501st Storm Trooper legion, Vader's Fist, please tell the clone trooper Lieutenant (the man had blue on his armor, he was a goddamn officer) that it was a complete misunderstanding.

Dear God, I will never quote Star Wars again.

At least not for another week.

Theraputic work

Another day, another rejection slip. This one from Asimov's (a form letter, of course, but hey, they're big name. So it's understandable). And then you get to thinking in the back of your head "So you wrote a book. Big deal. Everyone's done that, chump."

And you feel unprofessional. You feel like a slob. You think "how in the flaming HELL did they do it? King, Clancy, Grisham, Patterson - these guys are professionals. I want to be a professional!"

You know what makes me feel like a professional? Like I'm serious about my work? A highlighter.

A blue highlighter that I stole from a data entry job I worked at like three years ago. Here's what you do: take that highlighter and a copy of the Writer's Digest. Go to the literary agents section. Read about what kind of agents are out there. Highlight the ones that you think could represent you.

That's it. I think technically it's work - trying to further your career - but something about highlighting an agent (AGENT! Pros have agents!) is kind of fun. It's like wishful thinking that has an ultimate goal. You think of them calling and saying "Why hello, Mister Futch, we received your query letter and the outline of your project and would like to represent you."

Representation! Doesn't the word just make you salivate? Cant you see the line where it says 'Client's Signature'? By golly, doesn't it just make you all tingly?

Are you tingly? You should stop drinking. Seriously. You have a problem and need help.

So whenever the world gets you down, grab a highlighter and highlight the ever-loving SHIT out of something. A book, a manuscript, your boss's desk, the walls of the bathroom, your own body, your kid's face. Highlight and say proudly "I am a professional!"

I'm a professional! But... still, not a writer.

Wordslinger-117 out.

The waiting game

So, this is what happens when you're trying to submit stories to magazines and you've got no credits to your name.

1. Submit story to a publication (usually one at a time. They dont like it when you send it to them and somebody else. They're special.)
2. Wait a month.
3. Wait another month.
4. ???
5. Profit!
5a. Rejection!

It's agonizing waiting for that rejection (or maybe profit! you never know!). You're sitting there scratching at an itch to submit, but the itch doesn't go away. "It's okay," you tell yourself. "I've submitted a piece... they'll get back to me soon."

"NOOOO!" Your itch says. "Submit it again! To somebody else! At the SAME TIME! Consequences be DAMNED!"

And you fight it. And fight it. And then you get an email from somebody you submitted to and it says....

Dear Michael Futch,

"Thank you for sending your manuscript "Pinked Void," number 19818, to us here at Blahblahblahmagazine via the online submission manager.

We are sorry this particular manuscript was not selected for publication in Blahblahblahmagazine. We hope you will send us another soon, though. We could not publish Blahblahblahmagazine without the fine writing submitted to us. While we regret that the large number of submissions we receive makes it difficult for the editors to respond personally, we want to emphasize that an editor personally read your manuscript. Devoted reading is part of the Blahblahblah magazine editorial mission; it is also our own personal one."


A fucking FORM LETTER! GODTROHEORGMQERGOQW$%H RAAAAAGE. But they did read it. I think. That's what they say anyway. OR DID THEY?!

Well. That's the way it goes. I can submit it somewhere else now and rage again a couple months down the road. At least Asimovs has online submissions now (you Luddite bastards). Maybe someone else needs that, too... I'm LOOKING RIGHT AT YOU, F&SF MAGAZINE! YEAH, YOU SEE ME!

Wordslinger-117 out.

S for Sucks

So I heard about this awesome deal for the new Xbox 360 at Gamestop. Trade in your old one, get a hefty dose of credit to a new 360 S model. The one with the 250 gig hard drive and built in wi-fi. So today I call and see what's up.

Yes the deal is still on.

No they dont have any in stock.

No they wont be getting any that I can buy.

Yes they will get some more. By the end of the month. When the deal is over.

And nobody else has them in stock either. I still have a functioning 360, so it's hard to bitch too much. Still, when you can get a brand new console for about $125 bucks and it costs $125 to upgrade to the new features, it kind of makes your soul hurt.

Good times, right? I wonder what Microsoft has to say about this. Probably the same thing Nintendo had to say: "Wow. Didn't expect THIS much demand!"

Just thought I should share my agonizing, soul crushing pain with everyone else.


Wordslinger-117 out.