I was down at the Las Vegas DMV this morning, which was just a thrill, I tell you. Actually, I love to go to the DMV because you see so many different people there, and it’s fascinating. I really like people. But this guy comes up, sits right by me, and starts the whole, “Mmm hmm, babygirl, what do you do?”
I said that I write. I feel that I’m at the point where I can say that, and not have to justify it. So. “I write,” I said.
“Babygirl, you should write a book about me! Let me tell you all about my life!” And I thought, no, buddy. I write things that I want to write. I write to please myself, unless it’s something specifically for somebody else. And as fascinating as he may be, I don’t want to write about him.
It makes me smile. What a deliciously selfish realization, and I’ve earned the right to be selfish.
That said, I have been fighting to get my submissions back up to forty. Why do I care? It’s a matter of principal, maybe. It’s something tangible that I can measure. It also lights a fire under me and I need that, or else I’ll just slide, baby, slide. I submitted a poem called “unsolicited” that I like, and a story titled “The Exquisite Beauty of Death”. It’s a flash, and fairly charming, I think. It isn’t as dark as the anthology is requesting, but I’ve found that most people tend to be quite receptive to humor and lightness. We’re not as bleak as we claim to be, are we? Well, just fancy that.
Pieces out: 37