Last week, early in the week, I was having a string of bad days for reasons I can’t pin down. There was, as always, a combination of factors, the drudgery of hauling myself into the office during the post-holiday winter months (January-March is always hard), the segment I was working on in my novel wasn’t going as well as I envisioned, I was feeling the longing previously noted for my wife most acutely, and after waking to an email from a magazine accepting one of my stories on Monday morning, I proceeded to get hit with four rejections in quick succession that day. While I’ve been publishing stories long enough to usually take this as a matter of course, the combination of factors put me in the doldrums. There’s no reason to feel this way, I kept telling myself. Everything’s fine. But this was a case where reason couldn’t right the course of my emotions. By the end of the day, I was longing for a time when I was twenty-six, single, living in my own apartment and could hole up, drink a glass of whiskey, and watch a marathon of some television show or film series I liked. But alas, this is not my life anymore, and I had to gut it out, toughen up and try not to take my bad mood out on anyone else.
In this particular mood, I posted this snarky general remark in response to yet another of those “How to Get Your Story Published in Magazines” posts that litter the Web:
Thank god for the Internet. What would I do without writers I’ve never heard of with no notable publications giving me advice I never asked for about how to break into the publishing world?
But that’s not really fair of me. Back when I first started this site, I did a lot of this: talking about my experience with literary magazines as though I knew everything there was to know, as if writing has anything to do with publishing. People who are learning like to share their discoveries and insight. Even if it’s oftentimes more common sense than insight. So I understand the impulse, but some point, I decided I didn’t want to do this and took down all those posts. After all, who was I to be telling anyone anything? But I can’t avoid discussing writing here, since I’m going to talk about my life and writing constitutes a significant portion of it. Still, even now when I’m starting to post again, I’m going to try and keep writing about writing to a minimum. I don’t have much advice about writing to give. The best I’ve ever heard came at the end of Curtis Hanson’s film of Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys:
Nobody teaches a writer anything. You tell them what you know. You tell them to find their voice and stay with it. You tell the ones that have it to keep at it. You tell the ones that don’t have it to keep at it too because that’s the only way they’re gonna get to where they’re going.
One of the things that kept me going last week was Barrelhouse releasing the cover art of their upcoming issue. I have an essay published in the issue, and it’s embarrassing to admit just how much time I spent over the next day or so, staring at the image of the cover, thinking I’m in there. Because this was one thing that made my mood shift for the better. I was happy. I’m in there, I thought. Which, in and of itself, is funny. The way we think as writers, I’m in there. Not, I have a piece in there. So thank you, Barrelhouse. You made me happy when you accepted the essay. But you just might have saved my ass by giving me a positive distraction when I felt myself sinking. And DC Pae created a beautiful cover image.
With that said, I’ll drop a few words on the essay. The basic setup is that my wife and I took a trip to London before our daughter was born, and while there, I experienced some strange dreams about a crashed airplane drifting underwater while also having one of the most enjoyable vacations of my life. I crossed a travel narrative with the many-worlds interpretation of quantum theory to express both the joys and limitations of visiting a new city. Traveling, whether a day trip to the mountains or a week in another country, has always invigorated me and made me feel as though the world is so full of possibilities my only regret is I have but one lifetime in which to experience all it has to offer.
Here’s an excerpt from the intro in hopes of whetting your appetite:
This is one of those stories where you think you know the plot. One of those stories where the characters are dead and don’t know it. Only there’s no grand revelation here, no tacked-on cinematic twist to add melodrama. For they’re also living. They’re both alive and dead. But they aren’t ghosts and this isn’t a ghost story. No, this is a story of time in its most unconventional guise. A story of each moment as eternal. Infinite gestures and choices split off from one another, forming separate worlds and streams, and this is one of those streams. This is also a story of that most unconventional topic—happiness. But it’s happiness lived in the shadow of nothingness, happiness as it happens above a chasm.
Now I’ll drop a plug: if you’re reading this entry, you should buy the issue and read it. Not just for my piece but the whole thing. Barrelhouse has long been a journal I’ve admired since I got my hands on a copy of their Office-themed issue back in the day. They’re published a good number of up-and-coming writers I like, and I hope they continue to do this for years to come. Cheers, Barrelhouse!
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