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Archive for August, 2014

okay. bye.

NOTE: I think of Prairietown as my home-base; I’m pretty sure I’ll be back someday. Until then, I post raw writings and pictures I like at my writing diary.

I’ve been trying to find a better way to say goodbye. I sort of sounded like a dick last time. I am, sometimes, a dick—especially when my mind’s on this thing I hate and hate and still hate doing: sending out work.

It’s difficult. This is just a blog, but writing here makes me happy. Happier even than getting something published elsewhere, in a Real Thing.

I was writing an essay about a book I read recently, with the idea of posting it here, when I decided it would be better if I didn’t; it would be better if I sent it out. So that’s what I’m going to do. But I have to say, I’m less excited about this essay than I was before; actually, I haven’t been working on it. Maybe I’ll find a way to get interested in it again. Or maybe it will find its way here—at least that way it will have come into existence.

I’ve been picking myself apart for years, but I can’t tell you why I’m like this. Is it that everything has to be *my* show? It’s true that I like to have my own space, where I can create my own things and share them when and if I choose. But I also want to see what other people create, and I want to visit their spaces, if they’ll have me. I like to find singular things made by individual people that offer something whole and vast and special.

My favorite things to read are story collections, especially linked collections, and novels. I read very slowly, and I read a lot of the same things over and over again. I’m into full-immersion.

Over the past year I’ve been researching literary journals, and while I appreciate them (some, like Hobart, are fucking gems), and admire the editors who read tirelessly (though they’re probably tired) to find new work and to create these important spaces for young writers, I have a hard time *reading* journals—I support them, buy them when I can, keep them on my shelf; sometimes I pick them up and look at them, but a reader like me will always struggle with the format. And I think it’s for this reason that I find it hard to get excited about sending my work out to journals. But maybe I’m not the only person who should get to decide how to read the things I write. I’m not the only person who gets to decide. How these motherfuckers are read.

Someday I’d like to return to my venue of choice—I guess what you’d call self-publishing. Now is certainly not the time. Now is the time for finishing my book and sending out old stories and new essays. I’ll try not to think of the submissions process in a you’re-just-doing-this-to-get-your-name-out-there-and-that’s-gross kind of way. I’ll try to send stuff out because–I’m-not-the-only-person-who-gets-to-decide! I’m happy to have come up with a good reason.

Alright. I’m really leaving. I’m happier with this goodbye, not completely happy; I just really have to get going. I just really have to go to bed. Talk to you later.

Onward. Love.

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