Why Does God Wear Clothes?

No doubt that seems like a stupid question, but for a minute, put aside the obvious answer and really think about it (especially after you’ve noticed even the cherubs are in the buff). It gets heavy. Just sayin’.

Writing Prompt

Think of a song. No. Go listen to a song that you love. Think of the lyrics. Write a story that captures the mood of the song, try to bring to the mind of the reader the lyrics (or at least the feel) of the song without ever mentioning it directly or using the actual lyrics.

Join the Lobster Cult

You know how it is with lit mags, especially the ones online. They come and they go with the frequency of big city patrons in a cheap motel. But you can never tell which, and so I haven’t crossed fledgling mags off my submission list. You want to be part of the next big thing, you know, if you can catch it in time.

My new crush? Lobster Cult. I love the simplicity of its look. I heard about it through this incredible writer who had a piece accepted there, Kyle Hemmings, maybe you’ve seen his stuff around, you’d practically have to be blind to miss it since he’s everywhere. And so I sent a piece of creative non-fiction in myself. It’s posted now under February, called “Cigarettes and Sunshine”. I know. I should quit smoking. Moving on, aside from Kyle Hemmings (whose piece will probably be posted soon) you can read Meg Pokrass’ “Reflection #1″ which is a lovely little winding slipstream. I really enjoy her work, and I think you will too. So go get it while it’s hot.

In other news, I’ve recently had a piece accepted by Per Contra. We celebrated with tres pitchers of margaritas. And some jumping up and down. I’ll let you know when that comes out.

In other, other news, I’m still in a crisis about what to do with my life now that grad school is looming. I put off making any definite plans because it seemed so distant, and now it’s here. I’m debating between applying for my MAT (Master of Arts in Teaching) which is a one year program, but generally focuses on k-12, or going for my MA in English Studies, which would take two years, but would allow me to concentrate on what I love, and would also, I think, work out better for getting my PhD after. The thing is, the bills are mounting, and we can’t afford to keep the house on one income. The MAT would have me working in a year, but by then it might already be too late, and I’m so afraid that if I do it, I’ll settle for teaching high-school kids and never go on. With the MA, I won’t have a lot of choice but to continue. It’s practicality vs. the dream, and I don’t want to let practicality win, but dreaming? Isn’t that what you do in your spare time?

My adviser isn’t a whole lot of help in the matter. He recommends I get an MFA in Creative Writing at Wilmington. But it’s a terminal degree, and you can’t teach creative writing without some serious publications, and lacking those, it would be completely useless to me as far as getting a job goes. I don’t have that kind of faith in myself. If it happens, that’s great, but if I held my breath on it, I’d only suffocate. And suffocation makes me cranky.

Still, it’s at the back of my mind. I’m hoping it doesn’t all come down to eeny-meeny-miney-mo. But it might.

I’m feeling especially open to suggestions.

Why?

I’m applying to grad school and needed to look up tuition. Which left me with one serious question. Why does my school’s fee schedule look like a Chinese take-out menu? Did they pick the Chinese take-out template?

Merry Christmas.

Here on the east coast, it’s Christmas already. May yours be filled with light and love. And cookies.

Reading for pleasure, cripes, I’d almost forgotten what that was like!

School is finally out for the semester and finally I have some time to catch up on my reading. Naturally, I’ve reverted right back to Stephen King. Whenever I read a book, now, I try to pay a lot of attention to the wording, the flow, how much description there is compared to dialogue and narration. I guess I just want to see if I’m doing it right, and I also want to try to guess whether the writing process might be the same for real novelists as it is for me, you know, kind of slow and tedious, description especially. It’s hard to decide what things you see in the scene in your head are important and which are just there for no reason at all (or just to fill space). The trouble with Stephen King is I inevitably get too caught up in the story to pay too much attention to the structure. By page 100 my lesson is toast and I’m just reading for fun.

But that’s okay, too. Because sometimes I’m afraid that trying to write will destroy my ability to read for the sheer pleasure of it.

Besides being done with finals, Christmas is bearing down. Paul and I are fighting like cats and dogs because he’s cheap and I’m extravagant. Or as extravagant as I can with my sad, sad bank balance. So, I hate that about Christmas. Another thing I hate about Christmas? Those damned blow up yard decorations. You ever see them in the day, when they’re deflated and it looks like Christmas up and died on somebody’s lawn? And when they’re blown up, I want to wander around with a giant needle of doom and put the boots to them, just because they seem to be asking for it. They look like giant pinatas to me.

One thing I love about Christmas? Cookies. Ha. You thought I was going to say Jesus, didn’t you?

Fine. Jesus too. But he’s not nearly as tasty as cookies. Or at least, I wouldn’t think he would be. Paul and I are 86ing junk food come the new year, so I’ll be binging on sweets until then. And margaritas, which, because my favorite kinds are red and green, ought to be the designated alcoholic beverage of Christmas. Screw a bunch of nasty eggnog.

Things I’m thankful for.

Yahoo and Youtube.

Good news and Bad News

This past week I’ve sold two pieces. “The Neighbor” is going to Fifty-Two Stitches for their 2010 line-up. I wrote this one, really, for Paul, because I figured he’d get a kick out of it. And he did. The other, if I remember right, is called “A Two Flush Toilet” (it might be as silly as it sounds, but I had fun writing it) and is going to Three Crow Press-Morrigan Ezine. Naturally, the title, and idea for this story, really, came from our own two flush toilet. We have bad water pressure upstairs and I thought of it while I was waiting for the second flush, which is perhaps altogether too much information.

And now for the bad news. Arkham Tales is now closed, the final issue is up at their site now. Naturally, I’m disappointed that my story never did make it in, but really, I’m just more bummed that they’re closing, because I hate to see that, you know? You want to see these small ventures succeed not as a venue for your work, but because it’s a hard nasty world out there, and you want things to flourish just to know that they can. That there’s room for and interest in this collection of distinct voices. Because if there’s not, well, that’s just a son of a bitch. Adios, Arkham Tales, it was good while it lasted.

It’s not all fun and games

Sometimes, there are serious issues to be considered. Why are there no such things as butt callouses?

Thoughts

The mind sifts too much, something is there, considered, gone forever unless it’s been put down. I used to save thoughts when I was a kid. That will be good for thinking about before bed, that sort of thing. It’s like a guilty pleasure, thinking. Something that must be done alone and in the quiet. Milton wrote Paradise Lost to justify the ways of God to man, so he wrote. But God is incomprehensible. We can only understand by making God ourselves. Yet, we in turn are incomprehensible. Even in the mask of man, we cannot understand God because we cannot understand ourselves.

Last night I had a nightmare. I was on a tour of a house of illusions. Illusions that were real. Led by an old woman, an ugly place, an ugly toothless woman. It was dirty, everything, and full of death. It was like a farm. There was a great giant pig who was dead in a bigger bin with a lid that closed like an attic door. I knew he was dead in there, lifted the lid and saw him. He had the eyes of a human, but they were glazed over, milky. He skin was at once soft and flaking. And it stunk. I should have done something, disposed of it somehow, but it was too heavy. I didn’t want to deal with it. I knew the stench would fill the place, but told myself it would be contained by the bin. I dropped the lid and walked away to other horrors I don’t remember now.

Before I woke, we returned to that room. It still stunk, but the pig was alive, and not a pig, but a man, standing on two legs, but still piggish, if that makes sense. But his skin  was still soft, his eyes still milky. He explained that it was all an illusion, but the revelation made things no different. Was death the illusion? Can you make it so with denial? But if illusions, what are they at the heart? Why do they still look the same?

What are we?

It is the job of the novelist, poet, artist, to justify the ways of man to man. To create understanding where there was only darkness, at least for the creator.

I don’t know where I’m going with this, and I’ve gone on longer than I intended. I just didn’t want my mind to sift it out.