Jimmy floated on the water. He breathed the salty air of the ocean and the filth of human flesh. He thought the waning waves were going to wash him away. He thought he’s going to hear voices. But there he stayed, wide awake, exposed on the rocks.
Dearest friends,
It’s very obvious to see the struggle simply just want to “keep going” in this story. I do have to confess that I dragged myself along the way. Even when I was doing the proofreading, I was still like “er…. I don’t want to do this…. er….”. But there were moments when things just “oozed” out in my head. Although brief and not really remarkable, I take it as a good sign.
This is my second rejection from the magazine, not hurt really. In fact, I kinda expect them to do that for the following few years. What disappointed me a little is that the letter was exactly the same, I couldn’t help but complaining to myself: did they read the story at all? But I supposed that very question has been asked for God knows how many times ever since the Bronte sisters. However, they could at least change the subject title, or include the matter being refused, for there’s a three month period for a rejection, and I really can’t tell which is for which. Luckily, I didn’t expect any of them to get accepted in the first place, so wouldn’t care to be confused. (Yes, my friends, it’s positive thinking.)
I started this short story on January 14th, and finished it on the 31st. I can’t really point out what’s missing in this story. (I wanna say ‘talent’, but I don’t want to sound pathetic.) I suppose I just need to spend years and years writing as I can to get that right. It’s so easy to judge as someone else, so easy to talk about style and character when I am not the one responsible for them. But when it comes to my own words, is it normal to recognize none of it? Or maybe exactly because there’s none of it?
Although it seems like just one trip, I did have to go back and forth between passages trying to make the tone coherent, which I’m afraid, is still not. I wanted to get the streets right, I wanted to include all the names and directions so it’d feel like it’s an actual place, or a map, but I concluded there might just be too much of that, so it instead makes it seem coerced.
One thing I like about writing this short story is that I got to go back on the streets of Manhattan, although only inside my head and on the computer screen bookmarked as Google Map. All those squares drawn on the map, snapshots of the city life that can be displayed in various format, intertwine into a web of short-lived but system-written memory that last for years and stretch to thousands of miles. And did you notice? People were always looking at the camera. One thing about it though, is that if I found someone cute in the streetview, I won’t be able to ask him for his number, or get in line for a slice of oven pizza, which, I guess is just as well, for it’s the same thing in real life.
Preview- Pornstud
At night, the basement bedroom of Mike’s was restless. As Darren lay awake basked in the shadow when the light from outside cut his feet, he heard voices, different voices stirring, slightly shaking, in the walls from all sides. Feet trampled through outside the apartment’s basement door. He could hear TV, very faint, almost as if he imagined it. Keys, doors open and shut, and a buzzing he couldn’t really tell, a buzzing in the air, a buzzing in his head.
No comments:
Post a Comment