Good Rejection from N+1

Hey, Jackson.

I'm not sure if one of our higher-ups ever got back to you about your submission. We really enjoyed reading. . . . , particularly the Beepers story (!) but unfortunately we've decided not to publish. As a biannual, n+1 is only able to select such a small amount of content. We really appreciate your submission though, and do think of us in the future with your work. Sorry for the delay, and best with all your endeavors --

The Editors

Georges Borchardt Reads Half of the Ninjas of My Greater Self + Outline

I will not read into this whatsoever. I won't expect anything to come from it. I won't let myself indulge in daydreaming (well, not any more than usual). I won't let this fuck with my mind or raise my hopes because the fall will be too precipitous, the ground is too rugged + bony, + while my backbone is really strong, stronger than it's ever been, my skin is still soft. I'm hoppa after all.

Even so, even so, I wrote Georges Borchardt after TC Boyle sent him an email telling him about me (+ mentioning some of my publications--I only know that because Tom asked me in his office to repeat some of my pubs to him so he could tell his agent). I wrote Georges + asked him what he wanted from me + this was his reply:

Dear Jackson,

Yes, three chapters would be fine, or better still all the finished portions; and an outline of the as yet unwritten or unfinished portions would be helpful.

Best,


Georges

So, for the past three days, I've been polishing chapters, figuring out which ones were too rough to be sent + which ones showed promise. Then I wrote an outline of the entire novel (both the finished + unfinished chapters), which has helped me a lot in figuring out the endgame of this novel, how characters will intersect, shit like that. The exact same thing happened to me with Lynn Nesbit, who asked for the same thing, giving me the perfect excuse to work on + work out the plot of BLANK. And while obviously, she didn't pick up BLANK (her daughter, Priscilla Gilman, did seem to respect it though), Lynn Nesbit's request became the perfect excuse to figure out what the fuck was going on with my novel. This time, I have some pubs, I have the support of a famous writer, I have a small but direct contact inside the publishing world with someone who actually publishes authors with whom I share some aesthetic, literary, intellectual, socially-conscious + creative kinship. More than anything, I've got a--miniscule, but nevertheless tiny little--chance now.

I have no fucking idea, on the other hand, what's going to happen. But at least I've got hope. At least something's happening.

Anyway, stay tuned for more details.

What a Mensch

TC Boyle is a true mensch. Since today was out last day of workshop, we filled out evaluations, workshopped our last three manuscripts + then once we were done, Tom went around the room + gave each writer a free book of his--a personally dedicated + autographed--book, specifically targeted for each writer. In case you're wondering, Tom gave me East is East, which is pretty fucking perfect for me since my current novel is about a Japanese-American boy who looks completely white + ends up ultimately in Tokyo, trying to figure out who the fuck he is.

Inside, Tom wrote:

Jackson,

With thanks and in appreciation of your work.

TC Boyle

11/29/10

What a mensch. What a fucking mensch.

Getting Some Love from TC Boyle

Though it's just workshop props--and we all know that workshop has its own warped gravity, its own rules, blind spots + personality cults--I'm gonna fucking take the encouragement wherever I can get it. Here are Tom's comments for my last workshop manuscript (three chapters from my second novel in progress, Ninjas of My Greater Self). True, it may be just workshop feedback, but this shit makes feel good + sometimes, that's all we need to keep writing:

Jackson,

You don't need a workshop, you need a contract. This is so rich and beautiful and heartfelt that I'm won over to the project all over again. Here we can feel Hidashi as a character, vulnerable, angry + brilliantly observant, which (to my mind) wasn't necessarily the case in the earlier sections. But now you are getting to the beauty of things + dramatizing instead of posing + listing. Great stuff. Truly!

p.s. Love Hidashi's take on hipsters + the value of being hip
p.p.s. Love too how you're moving the story through these brilliant and hilarious scenes of dialogue

For a couple days, I'm gonna stand tall. Then, it's back to work.

Playing the Referral Game + Junot Diaz Comparisons

Yesterday, TC Boyle admitted to me in his office that he made all of us in workshop read Junot Diaz (+ 3 other authors from Doubletakes), in part because he wanted the class to see some of the stylistic similarities between Brief Wondrous Life + yours truly.

--You know, I called that, I said. I actually told someone that I wondered whether you had us read Junot Diaz because it was similar in some ways to my own writing.
--No, it's true, he said.
--But I didn't wanna be egocentric, so I dismissed it as stylistic coincidence.
--No, you were right.

Fuck, how flattering is that shit?

::

Last year back when were just getting acquainted in our roles as writer-mentor, I asked TC Boyle one day in his office--because I'm ambitious like that--if he would give me a referral to four agents I was particularly in love with (Nicole Aragi, who I send a query letter to pretty much every year, Mary Evans + Eric Simonoff, both of whom have never responded to me, + Georges Borchardt, Tom's own agent). His response was fair: Let's work together in workshop in the fall + then I'll be happy to. Well, I never forget a promise, especially one involving my own writing career. So after we talked about the last two chapters I'd recently workshopped from The Ninjas of My Greater Self (my second novel), I asked him again + he was good to his word. It's an easier sell now I think because he has a much better idea of my aesthetic. And also, because he was especially impressed with the first chapter I submitted to workshop, "Girls: A Four-Movement Symphony by the Beastie Boys," the good thing is that he won't have to lie about my skillz. I could be wrong, but I don't think Tom goes out on a limb for his students unless:

1. He thinks they're talented
2. They initiate it themselves

So, I think it's a good sign he was still willing to give me a referral, but it's just a small step, one that promises nothing but opens up a new, dreamy--and very unlikely--possibility. But now, the real work begins. Getting a referral doesn't necessarily mean shit in this industry unless:

1. The agent has room in her/his client list, and most importantly:
2. They love the shit out of your novel. And just as importantly:
3. They know they can sell it

And of course, even in the best case scenario that all 4 agents ask to take a look at BLANK or Love + Porn--which won't happen--it's still very possible that I'm exactly where I was before I asked him.

And yet, yet, what other choice do I have? I have to risk the possibility of rejection in order to get my writing out there + create a readership. I have to do it for me + I have to do it for my art. I don't know another way except to keep pushing. Eventually, something breaks down, right? Eventually, someone pushes through. Why not me? Why not me? I ask you.

Good Rejections from Missouri Review + Slice Magazine

I've gotten two good rejections in the past week.

Here's the first one from the Missouri Review:

Dear Jackson Bliss,

Thank you for sending your story "****" for consideration. Speer Morgan read this piece with interest but ultimately decided it's not quite right for us.

The editors appreciate your interest in The Missouri Review and hope you'll consider sending us another story in the future. We wish you continued success in your publishing career.

Sincerely,

Dedra Earl for Speer Morgan

And here's the second rejection from my Slice Magazine. For the record, I've received 3 good rejections from Slice Magazine in a row now, but I can't get them to bite yet:

Dear Jackson Bliss:

Thanks so much for giving us the opportunity to consider your work for Slice. Due to the high volume of submissions we receive, we regret that we aren’t able to respond to each submission personally. We’ve been thoroughly impressed by the quality of the work that we’ve received. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to include your piece in our next issue of Slice. We’d love to consider more of your work in the future, though, so please do continue submitting to us.

Best wishes,

The Editors

2010-10-19 03:54:07 (GMT +1:00)

They're good rejections, but the reality is that they're still just rejections. Ikimashō!

Algonquin Press Asks for Bigger Excerpt of The Amnesia of Junebugs

I'm absolutely not going to read into this at this point because it's just a larger partial, but for what it's worth, Algonquin Press sent me a request for a 100-page partial of The Amnesia of Junebugs after I sent them a 30-page teaser. Doesn't mean anything. I absolutely refuse to read into this. I'll eradicate any + all hope for now because that shit just hurts when it comes back as a rejection (as it so often does). But still, for a couple seconds, it's kinda cool.

More Art, Less Writing

Today, in between finishing Francine Prose's Blue Angel, playing with Zoe (our adorable shiapoo), schlepping our tired bodies to Whole Foods, watching Friday Night Lights reruns, conducting a thesis/topoi workshop in my writing + critical thinking seminar, watching porn on my iPhone while I brushed my teeth after class, between all of that, I've been thinking a lot about the difference between writer + artist:

There are a lot of writers on this planet for the simple reason that writing is a technical, redactive + analytical process--meaning, people who are skilled at conceptual organization, editing + analysis can + often do write really well. Further, these are learnable/transmittible skills.

Then there's the writer-artist, someone who can create entire worlds, characters + experiments, + direct them in the service of a storyline, conceptual framework or idea, transporting you into another, parallel, self-sustaining universe with the flash work of a single paragraph. That's what great writing can do when it's art, change the universal vibration of everything around you, whether it's literary fiction, chicklit, Stephen King or George Saunders.

The problem then, is that, the most distinguishing characteristic for a writer--i.e., your artistic, non-technical matrix--is precisely the one thing no MFA workshop can teach you. Workshops have to focus on technique because technique is technical + technical things can be taught, practiced, improved. But ultimately, while improving your technique will make you a better writer, it won't--it can't--make you a better artist. MFA programs know this. They're not delusional. In the back of most directors' mind, they know that, more than anything, their MFA program is basically a gift, a gift of community, support + time, + time, above all else, is a prerequisite to write, everyone's least common denominator, both writers + artists. But all of that writing doesn't mean you're an artist--didn't I just say this?--it means you're a fucking writer, which honestly, isn't a bad way to go at all.

My concern, though, is this: there are already way too many fucking writers in this country, in this continent, in this world. And while I'll support to the end of my life the right for MFA programs/residencies/endowments to exist + give shelter to writers who just need time--that precious commodity--to work out their potential art that's all tangled up inside, at the same time, MFA programs are also partially to blame for the proliferation of writers that haven't smelled one whiff of art in their 2-3 years of workshop-hysteria gang-rape. What the world needs, what American culture salivates for, what the brainiacs + college students + aggressive critics + tenured faculty + jaded post-homeboy Generation Me slackers all need--+ let's be honest, we always need something, nothing is more painfully human than that--is more art that is ambitious + difficult + smart + great soulful + provocative + the opposite of safe + socially-conscious + socially relevant + breathtaking + thought-provoking + timeless + insightful/generous/brutal about the human condition + above all else, profound in some existential, cultural or global way.

We're told that the little moments are the big moments now, that the reader shouldn't expect pay-offs (i.e. epiphanies), that beautiful writing is its own end, that any narrative, any story, any emotion, any character is worth writing about + for whatever reason if it's done well enough. Maybe, that's right. But maybe, just maybe this legitimately-constructed defense of art-for-art's-sake (one I've made a million times against people that use literature as an ideological puppet show), maybe this point of view has kept the front door open for so long that now everyone comes inside. Everything's art, therefore, nothing's art. Anyone can write a novel (especially a once drug-addicted celebrity with a ghost writer). Anyone can print a novel in a vanity or self-publishing press, therefore writing + publishing, are no longer exclusive, protected domains in this new arrangement of mass media democratization (which seems like a good thing!).

Because there is so much writing in America--more than at any point in our own cultural history--but so little art, so little genius, no wonder people don't read anymore. Maybe we've cheapened the deal for them by publishing writing but downplaying, ignoring, even cockblocking great art for fear of poor sales. Editors want to make money, agents want to sell manuscripts + writers just want readers, which might be the most dysfunctional fucking love triangle I've ever heard of.

And yet, despite this, I still can't stop writing. It's the only place I belong in this world. Whether it's art or not, I can't say. I'm not even sure that's my call. But I'm willing to double-up--whether true or not--that I'm in this for the art. Whether my writing is good enough to be art, well, I'll let you decide. I already know what I think.

One Day of Love, Then Back to Reality

It's just some workshop props, nothing else. But hey, for just one moment, I'm gonna enjoy it. I'll fucking take the encouragement wherever I can get it, to fight the armies of cost-benefit analysis.

After I got home from workshop, I finally read Tom's critique of my manuscript of "Girls: A Four-Part Symphony by the Beastie Boys," a self-contained chapter from my second novel, The Ninjas of My Greater Self.

Here's an abridged version of TC Boyle's critique, verbatim:

Jackson:

Astonishing stuff. The language sings + the sensual details, of sex, + beauty + food + all the rest, make this very rich indeed. I have no qualms whatever--this is finished work.

There are perhaps a couple of places where the language calls attention to itself + perhaps the narrator protects his hipness a little too strenuously, but who cares? This is rich + nuanced, + the smart, funny, hyperactive voice carries it all the way.

Yeah, for a couple of seconds, it felt really good to read that.

But now (a day later), it's time to get back to reality: I'm still the same person I was yesterday, just another talented, aspiring fiction writer with just a few great publications. I still have a lot to prove to myself, to my critics + to all the people that won't give BLANK a chance in an industry filled to the sky with smooth, polished writing that has no soul, no vision + makes no attempt to create original, important, socially conscious, powerful, beautiful + ambitious art.

Carry on.

TC Boyle's Workshop = Dope

I've taken workshop with a decent amount of writers + i have to say that TC Boyle is one of the most unusual + interesting people i've had a workshop with so far, Aimee Bender + Frances Sherwood being exceptions. I say unusual + interesting, but of course, those are both huge compliments. Here are a few things that i find interesting about tom's workshop in particular:

1. He's an amazing close reader of text--you can see the old PhD student studying 19th century Brit Lit a mile away, to be honest

2. He is, to this day, the only person i've had a workshop with, who even made the suggestion that a story in workshop might end exactly where it should be ending--you never hear that. The operative assumption in all workshops is that stories are never done, + even having a story end where it's supposed to obviously doesn't mean it's finished. But still, here's a writer who can say, "i think this piece still needs work, but i think you might be ending it exactly where i think you should be ending it." Fucking unheard of

3. He reads our critiques out loud (anonymously) + then uses them to launch our discussion, which seems really smart. Not only does it encourage good written feedback but it actively involves student critique in part of the dialogue, while also stripping us of our scripts (since he's holding our critiques), which condenses the dialogue really beautifully

4. He doesn't let the workshop dwell on the same issues. Most workshops I've taken, people either fight to disagree with workshop consensus, writers are competing with each other to outcritique the manuscript, the writers are psychoanalyzing the writer through his/her manuscript or they're trying really hard to kiss the workshop leader's ass. Here, that doesn't happen. When things become redundant, he changes the focus, picks a new aspect of the manuscript to analyze + asks a new set of questions

5. As with Aimee Bender's workshop, when Tom speaks, you fucking listen because like her, he's a master of the short story + obviously all of us, no matter where we are in our own aesthetic evolution, surely are not

6. Because people can't rehash the same shit over + over again, workshop gets out 30-40 minutes early every week. It's fucking amazing!

Good Rejections Suck Ass

I know I'm supposed to be grateful for receiving a good rejection. And on the most important level, I am. The fact that someone took the time to write me a note is a personally moving experience + lets me know that my writing touched someone enough for her to send me a letter written in her own penmanship, when they could have just as easily have sent me a form rejection, or gone out to lunch, or masturbated in the shower, or eaten a bowlful of black cherries. Maybe, the editor did all of things, and still sent me a hand-written letter. Who the fuck really knows? So the process of reaching out to someone, that I really appreciate. The outcome, on the other hand, just fucking plain sucks ass. I'm so sick of good rejections I could cry. In the beginning, they are encouraging little moments of artistic momentum, sent to you by the universe--or so it seems--to push you to keep writing, submitting + believing, to never give up. And write, submit + believe I have.

But I'm at the primitive (but slightly more successful) stage of my writing career now where the good rejection doesn't charm like it once did. The intention remains beautiful, but the end result is beginning to feel not only predictable but frustrating. Why do journals need a consensus when they publish pieces anyway? Why can't some editors push for the pieces they like + others simply lobby for the stories they really want to see in print? I mean, certainly there will be much overlap of pieces editors both like, so why do I find my stories constantly dividing editors into yes + sorry-but-no camps? How scary would it be if they all actually agreed that my story was either uniformly kick-ass or uniformly shitty? I mean, doesn't art--and by that, I mean, good art--by its very nature, divide an intelligent audience? Isn't that the point? Anyway, I'm casting away my sorrow now to focus on my second novel + my story that will be coming out of Quarterly West soon. But these questions, I'm not sure if they ever go away.

::

On to rejections. Yesterday I received this hand-written letter from RHINO. It reads:

Dear Mr Bliss,
Thank you for your submission. We were particularly interested in "Shinjuku" [a 4am]," and it engendered a lively discussion among our editors. Although we were not able to find a place for it in the upcoming RHINO, we were nonetheless impressed with your work, and hope you will consider submitting to us again.
 Wishing you continued success in your writing life.

 R(P?)**********,
 Editor

Today, I received this rejection letter from McSweeney's after waiting exactly a year. It said:

Hi Jackson,

thanks for checking in on this one, and sorry it’s taken us so long to respond—we got sidetracked by a few special projects, and have gotten way too behind on our reading. I think we’ve finally decided to let it go, unfortunately--but please feel free to keep ‘em coming, as always. Thanks again,


J**********

What to say? I love both these journals, but I don't really have any more flash fiction I can send RHINO, sad to say, so I'm not sure I will be able to send them more material. As for McSweeney's, I'm beginning to feel like an asshole sending the fiction editor my newest short stories first (is it some weird sort of loyalty that makes me do that?) just to wait 8-12 months for my story to get rejected. That's a long time to wait before getting dumped. I mean, 5-6 months, doesn't sting so bad. I mean, 5-6 months is the standard production curve of rejection anyway. But 9-12 months? I find it so hard not to think (read: dream) that my story has made it into the final rounds of manuscript heaven, a mythical land called McSweeneyville (the place where all fiction writers hope their manuscripts die) . I guess Aimee is right: if you don't hear from McSweeney's in a year, chances are, they're just not that interested. I guess the question now is, when do they start becoming interested? What am I doing wrong here? Are my stories not hip enough for McSweeney's? Are my male characters not broken enough? The girls, not spunky and eccentric enough?

The last piece I sent them was about a porn star who becomes a fan of a totally obscure literary fiction writer. If that doesn't get them on board, frankly, maybe it's time I stopped trying.

Maybe it's just not going to happen. Maybe I'm too old for McSweeney's + too young + naïve for the New Yorker. Maybe, just maybe, the real problem, is that I actually care what editors think about my writing + it bothers me that they don't love my writing the way I think they should.

Who the fuck knows?

Aimee Bender Helps Me Chill Out

I'm gonna tell this story in reverse:

Exactly one minute after hanging out with Aimee, I received this email from Graywolf Press, that pretty much broke my heart:

Dear Jackson Bliss,

Thank you very much for submitting "BLANK" to Graywolf Press.

We certainly found a great deal to admire in your work, but when it came time to make a publishing commitment, I’m afraid we decided we couldn’t make you an offer. It’s always difficult to make these decisions and to write letters like this one. The small number of books we can publish each year unfortunately puts us in a difficult position in terms of taking on a lot of new work.

We will say, though, that your enthusiasm about New York is fresh and infectious, and we did enjoy much of this. Unfortunately, we didn't connect with the voice here as well as we'd have liked. This is, of course, simply a matter of taste, and others may feel differently.

In any case, thank you for having Graywolf in mind. We wish you the best of luck in finding the right publisher for your work.

With best wishes,

The Editors

Graywolf Press

I have crazy love/respect for Graywolf Press. They pretty much epitomize everything that is awesome about indie presses (e.g. great selection of published novels, including translations, a devoted, smart + savvy editorial staff, national distribution, publishes literature that is aware of the greater world around us). So you can imagine the heartbreak when I found out they'd rejected BLANK. My big concern with BLANK has always been that it's too structurally ambitious, too conceptual + lyrical, too socially plugged-in + too unorthodox for most of the big presses. So my concern, my big concern, is that if the awesome indie presses won't take a chance on a sui generis novel like BLANK, then frankly, who the hell will? I mean, the only way I'm going to get Little, Brown to publish BLANK is if I have a love affair with Paris Hilton or protect Jessica Alba from a mugger with my dinner toothpick.

But my conversation with Aimee helped me get my shit straight:

1. I have to remember that I'm working on a second novel right now, which means that I'm not going to be sending out as many manuscripts as I normally do, which means I'm also not going to be getting pieces picked up as much as I'd like. But that's part of the whole creation process when you write. Working on a novel is your downtime to create, revise + invent. Most of the time, your novel will be hard to split up into pieces + published anyway, so you shouldn't worry about the publishing game for quite awhile.

2. Every major writer always has a tipping point. For her, it was publishing a short story in the Santa Monica Review, which helped her find an agent, get published in an anthology +get Girl with a Flammable Skirt published, all happening in quick succession. Obviously, I don't know if I'll have a tipping point (though I believe I will) or when it'll happen (though I sense it'll happen while I'm in LA). All I can do is keep writing, submit when I can + remember that I'll get my time. I hope.

3. After she offered me one of her vegan samosas, I asked Aimee what Jim Sheppard's writing trajectory was like.

--I'm not sure, she said, but I'm sure he paid his dues just like we all do.

And somehow, that's comforting to know that other writers that are now national players have had to slowly create their own momentum too just like I do, just like almost every writer has to.

4. I apologized to her about bringing in an Anis Shivani article for the class to discuss in our workshop last year in light of Shivani's most recent bitch session about literary publishing in the Huffington Post that came out a few weeks ago. Anis Shivani picked Aimee as one of the 15 most overrated contemporary writers

--Oh, don't worry about it, she said, smiling. --Actually, I'm completely flattered to be mentioned with those other writers: Amy Hempel, Jhumpa Lahiri, Junot Diaz, Vollman, Lydia Davis.

This is when I told her: --Aimee, for the record, I think it's really hard to write like you. I've never seen anyone who could write you convincingly. Besides, theory's got nothing on you.

--Thanks, Jackson, she said, blushing, --I appreciate that.

I guess writing is tough for everyone right now.

My First Official Workshop with TC Boyle

I've already met, chatted with + kicked it with TC Boyle many times in the past year, but today was the first time I had an official workshop with him, which changes the dynamic a bit. Anyway, because it was the first day of workshop, we didn't workshop stories. Instead, Tom read Tobias Wolf's "Bullet in the Brain," which just happens to be one of my favorite short stories of all time + definitely my favorite story in The Night in Question. It was one of my favorite moments at SC so far, listening to TC Boyle read Tobias Wolf. Besides writing the story yourself, what could better? After he was done reading, Tom plopped down the book on the desk and said: --Yup, one of Toby's best.

Toby. Did you hear that? Toby. Later on, I'd eavesdrop on Tom talking to a first year fiction writer + listen to him say shit that just blew my mind. Shit like: --so I told Ray (as in Raymond Carver). . . and I told John (as in, John Irving) I just wanted to write short stories + he said I might change my mind later on. In Review: Tom, Toby, Ray + John. For a split second, the literary Parthenon feels so close to me somehow, like smells drifting upstairs from the kitchen.

Novel Chapter from The Amnesia of Junebugs Published in Fiction

There are few joys greater than seeing your shit in print. That's a rule + I'm sticking to it, man. So you can imagine how giddy I was today when I walked into the Hollywood Borders + there was my story featured in Fiction # 56, my name being the first name on the front cover. It was a pure, inexplicable + dirty little joy. Even better, I had the privilege of sharing journal space with one of my favorite Japanese authors, Murakami Ryū (author of Almost Transparent Blue, Coin Locker Babies, "Tokyo Decadence", among others). I may get 100 rejections this year (like last year). I may--shudder at the point--never publish BLANK in its current form. I may not become the literary superstar I secretly hope/believe I am. I may not ever become a household name--which writers are these days? I may not even get the privilege to live in relative obscurity, teaching fiction workshops to aspiring delusional writers inside pretty-looking college seminar rooms. Who the fuck knows how it all works anyway?

But what I do know, what I know for sure, is that this moment, this perfect little moment is mine. And though it can never last, I know that in this tiny moment, I just published a chapter from my first novel in an awesome literary journal that you can buy pretty much in almost any Borders in America. And that makes me wanna cry for all the years no one could find me.

3 Chapters from The Amnesia of Junebugs Published in the African American Review

Finally! "Skinny Boys," "The Molesters" + "The Symmetry of Tablespoons," three Chapters from my debut novel, BLANK, were recently published in the African American Review (Volume 43 #1). After being accepted way back in 2008, it feels so great to finally see those chapters in print. If you want to buy a copy for yourself, you can do so here. Otherwise, check it out on Project Muse for free.

Writer Culture Fatigue

I've been thinking a lot recently about the defects of writer culture. You know what I'm talking about: we become experts on not only MFA programs but also literary journals, artist colonies + residencies, agents + editors, contests + book publishers. We start to form a rolodex in our mind of important writers we've read, worked with, know gossip about. We drop casual workshop jargon in our craft conversations as if art is dead, some sort of clinical experiment that involves goggles, rubber gloves + a fucking pencil knife. Unconsciously, we begin amassing a long list of craft maxims, followed by an even longer list of craft exceptions, obscurity-to-fame stories, industry gripes and undeserved success stories.

I guess we do this not only because writing is our life, but because all of this stuff makes us feel somehow like we're just a little closer to making it--whatever making it means these days. I'm sympathetic to all of this shit + I'm guilty of all these things too. But now I'm starting to think that:

1. While the average technical ability of a fiction writer today is much higher than it was a 100 years ago, I feel like there is also very little original art being created in America's workshops, which is troubling

2. While important, networking should never replace great writing. Ditto with name-dropping, program nepotism + market saturation.

3. Great art should trump everything else, and somehow, in this age of self-publishing, bottom lines, sell-throughs, contractual fine print, cost benefit analysis, great writing isn't making it to the bookshelves enough, and I'm not just saying that because I haven't found a publishing house yet for BLANK.

4. I don't like talking about writing anymore. Let me qualify that. For years now, I've felt like I'm not talking about writing for the right reasons. By that I mean, I no longer talk about writing because it's changing my life, but because I'm examining it, which, in a way, belittles writing. When writing stops being about great ideas + powerful narratives + starts being about narratives arcs, backstory, dialogue + flashbacks, I think the battle is already lost. I don't mind technical analysis, but the point is to analyze technique in order to improve the transmission of art, not to improve the technique itself. Isn't the ultimate goal of writing to produce art? Wait, before you bark back another writing platitude, think about that. Has writing + art become separate mediums? Because to me, it feels like the goal of writing has changed from creating art that is ambitious, socially-conscious + emotionally powerful into producing technically competent writing, as if that's the goal, as if writing isn't art anymore, but a form of circular logic whose ultimate destination is itself.

Whatever writing is, for me, it is above all else, art, motherfuckers. It's supposed to provoke, speculate, create, engage, analyze, move, inspire, devastate, reify, push and pull, twirl in circles, slur, slap, arouse, infect, overwhelm, exhale, fly, imagine, dare, delight, infuriate, affect, teach, hurt, open up, give voice to + often, scare us. If it doesn't do that, some of that, any of that + so much more, then I don't want to read it, whatever it is, no matter how well written it is, I'm just not interested. Medical journals are extremely well edited + technically polished, but yo, they don't fucking have what I need.

Why I Really Want to Win a Book Contest

So that now I'm officially entered in 3 separate book contests for short story collections (the AWP Prize, the Flannery O'Connor Prize + the Drue Heinz Literature Prize) + will have to wait forever to hear the results, I can't help but dream the impossible dream. The reality of life as a literary fiction writer is obviously changing a lot + MFA graduates are spraying out of an art pipe right now that universities can't possibly absorb or sponge up fast enough, but I still believe (have to believe) that winning a major literary prize + or subsequently publishing a first short story collection/debut novel would basically change my writing career. I mean, fiction writers have gotten fame + tenure on less than that + fame + tenure gives writers summers (moments) to write while keeping their hands warm in the Winter. Not a bad fucking deal at all for a boy used to nothing.

But my desire to win a book contest transcends my desire to teach + avoid a life of prolonged poverty. Part of it is about the concreteness of seeing my book, my stories, my work, transformed into an external object that other people can consume, underline, wrinkle, argue about, analyze, misquote, all of which are different ways of giving weight to words. Metaphysically, this is the closest thing a writer will get to a miracle.

Another part is, I don't seem to be very good at winning contests. I've only won one in my whole life (the Sparks Prize) + I was only competing with 10 other people, not exactly inspiring odds, even if that prize did in fact help clarify my priorities for me and remind me of my purpose on earth (thank you, universe!). But there's something about having a readership, about gates flung open by the same gatekeepers that once locked you out of your destiny for a decade in the form of workshop teacher, editor, reader, agent, that all seems so fucking amazing to me. With one book, it becomes impossible not to say these words: you're not a writer. You may not be a good writer (fuck, you could be a terrible one), but no one can take away who you are anymore the way they did when you were just a bundle of great ideas and pretty lines. And there's something reassuring about that.

The truth is, I don't know what that feels like. I'm constantly living between the potential + kinetic art worlds all the time. One minute, I'm stoked because I'll get to see a chapter from BLANK in a nationally distributed journal like Fiction that my friends will be able to purchase at any Borders in the country--unthinkable three years ago. But then the next minute, I realize I've only heard good news from one journal this whole year + it's already half-way through 2010! Even worse, I don't feel any closer to publishing BLANK or my collection of short stories than I did when I'd finished my MFA, and that kinda depresses me because I feel that I've really evolved as a writer into someone with a particular, unique style that has a place in the publishing industry.

So that's the rub I guess: without dreams, I don't enter contests or submit stories to journals or send my novel to finicky agents and language-worshipping small presses. But because I do those things, I get rejected more than any other writer I know, certainly more than the other writers that either give up or just stick their stories in the bottom desk drawer. And dreams can really fuck you up as an artist. They implant ideas inside your heart that only end up leaving paper cuts on the places they touch. Sometimes all you want to do is spend your life writing, which is hard to do when your writing doesn't pay your electricity bill.

But then again, if one contest goes your away, everything changes in a silent flash. It doesn't change a lot, just a little. But when you change one thing completely inside of yourself, you fundamentally change everything connected to it. And that is where my hope begins, right where luck makes out with destiny.

Baby Steps

As an emerging fiction writer, you have to continuously find new ways to believe in your writing for the simple reason that in the beginning--and it's always the beginning until you're famous--you're the only motherfucker who believes in it. Parents, friends, classmates, wives, pediatricians, as lovely as they are, don't matter, at least not in the publishing world. All the love in the world won't get you published, at least not until it's an editor who's swooning over your language play. So, in order to find the perfect agent + publish your polished novel, you need to make a name for yourself first. So you send query letters to agents + submit stories/chapters to literary journals, all of which entails a shitload of rejection. And with all that rejection, it's easy, so easy, in fact, to listen to that nagging little voice inside your head that says you're just not cut out for this industry that seems to reward technique over beauty, name-recognition over originality. Maybe you're not talented enough (unlikely). Maybe you're not intrepid enough (more likely). Maybe you're not well-connected enough + your skin isn't thick enough (very likely). But to stick it out in this game, inevitably, you learn to be intrepid, you build your own networks + through scar tissue, you become thick-skinned. You have no other choice. Otherwise, you give up. Luck helps, but as it turns out, you can't bribe her. . .

My problem (+ greatest strength) is that I don't give up on the things I love. The few respectable print publications I have so far are as much a product of my talent as my stubbornness. But shit, I'm human + sometimes I need to replenish, not only my faith in myself as an literary fiction writer, but also my hope as a human being.

So, here are a few things that help me keep the faith:

1. Submitted Love + Porn, my collection of short stories, to the AWP Contest in short fiction

2. Submitted Love + Porn to the Flannery O'Connor Award for Short Fiction

3. Submitted Love + Porn to the Drue Heinz Literature Prize

Winning any of these contests is really fucking hard because each contest receives hundreds upon hundreds of manuscripts, many of which are as polished + pretty as yours. But you have to face these odds with your bare fists + fight for your right to live as a writer. And every contest you don't enter, your failure rate is 100%. So I'll take my 1-2% chance, thank you very much. Besides, even with those slim odds, the potential payoff can be fucking amazing: you win a prestigious literary contest, you win some cash + most importantly, you get your first collection of short stories out there in the world (which later, will probably get picked up by a major publishing house too--it happens all the time). And then, suddenly crowned with your first book, you'll give a few readings. You might give an interview or two for a journal. A book club wants to chat with you. Readers argue about you on Amazon. And suddenly, suddenly, your application for that creative writing faculty position, it goes from the bottom of the pile to somewhere in the middle. All of that with just one book, one contest, one piece of conspiracy that goes your way.

Beyond that, there are other things too that give me hope in the now + these things matter:

1. Like finding this awesome review in Ruelle Électrique of "A Full Cellar" that was published in ZYZZYVA, part of which you can read here (though this is not the complete story, by the way).

2. Finding my writing blog on New Pages without having to beg someone!

3. When times get tough, I remind myself that 8 years ago, I'd never taken a workshop before + now, TC Boyle is my thesis adviser

4. Remembering how only 3 years ago, I didn't have a single short story published in a prominent, nationally-distributed print literary journal. Not one

5. Fanmail. Though sparse, I've officially received 3-4 emails from people who read something of mine + loved it. And that really fucking makes my day. It helps me know that my writing does matter

Granted, there is still so much more to accomplish as (just another talented) fiction writer in this cut-throat market. But you can only take baby steps in this industry. And finally, I've taken a few. Just a few. But that's how you get to where you need to be.

Kicking it with Miguel Syjuco

Lissa, Marvin + I met Miguel Syjuco in the bar of the Hotel Standard where we asked him our first FF10 (10 questions we ask every author we interview for our journal, Flying Fists). Then, Lissa did some follow-up questions for Tayo Magazine. For those of you that might not know, Miguel Syjuco is a rising star in the publishing world. After winning both the Palanca award (Philippine's equivalent of the Pulitzer prize in fiction) + the Man Asian Literary Award in 2008, Miguel has been gaining a lot of attention. His success story sounds like something in a movie: as he explained at his reading at the LA Public Library 4 hours later, 1 week after winning the Man Asian Literary Award, he got an agent (Melanie Jackson) + 2 weeks after that, a book contract. Yes, it's enough to make you drool.

But what's great about MS, is that the hype hasn't gone to his head. He's a nice, funny, interesting, smart, personable + all around cool dude. Even better, his attitude towards race + fiction: culture + fiction should influence but not control our writing. Anyway, I won't spoil the rest of the interview since we're including it in our first issue of Flying Fists coming out in the fall, but for now, just know that Miguel Syjuco, the man + the writer, is an awesome guy.

When I gave him my copy of Ilustrado to sign, telling him it better be good, he wrote:

Jackson,

Stay in school + don't do drugs. I look forward to your signing your book for me in turn one day soon. Keep writing + take no shit from nobody, man.

Miguel