Moving On Up

Until you've become the darling of the glossies, writing fiction is not a very profitable business.  In fact, most of the time, we're happy just to get a story accepted into a goddamn literary journal.  That's often--usually--the thing we care most about.  So getting paid is always an unexpected bonus for aspiring writers.  The truth is, F. Scott Fitzgerald wouldn't have lasted two years in the current biz before he said, "fuck this, there's no money here, Zelda" + of course, he'd be absolutely right.

You can understand, then, my giddiness for the check I got in the mail today for $180.00 for my short story, "The Blue Men inside My Head"!  This piece is slated for publication in the Fall issue of the Antioch Review + one of the stories in my collection, Atlas of Tiny Desires.  In the writing world, $180 is like a shitload of money! The most I'd received prior to today was fifty bucks from ZYZZYVA, the Kenyon Review + $45 from the Notre Dame Review, all of which I was very happy with.  Also, I was supposed to receive £22 for Stand Magazine, but sadly, the check never came from Leeds, England + I decided to stop fighting that fight eventually.  Anyway, I don't mean this entry in braggy kinda way, I'm just really fucking stoked that for the first time in my life, I received a check for triple digits for my writing.  I see this as a tiny but major victory in my writing trajectory.

Now that I'm practically $200 richer, it's time to spend this shit.  If you live in Chicago, I'll buy you tea sometime.  Just text me.

Good Rejection from N+1

Dear Jackson,

Thank you for submitting " . . ." to us. I enjoyed reading it; it is a very strong essay that deftly explores its subject matter. Unfortunately, however, we're unable to accept it for publication at n+1 at this time.
 
I wish you the best in finding publication for your essay and in your writing career. And please feel free to submit again to us in the future.

Sincerely,
W*** W*******

David Mura Writes Back

I wrote David Mura a few weeks ago, author of recent poetry collection Angels of the Burning + novel Famous Suicides of the Japanese Empire (Coffee House Press), among other books, telling him I really admired/loved Where the Body Meets Memory + that I was planning on using part of it in the critical component of my dissertation I've been working on at SC.  Anyway, I'm included part of his response which he kindly sent me:

Dear Jackson
 
Thanks so much for your kind words about my work. It means a lot to me that someone like you is taking an interest in and writing about WTBMM. Your dissertation sounds like an interesting and exciting project (I have a friend who's also doing a dissertation combining scholarly and creative writing although her committee only allowed a chapter for the creative writing) . . .

Good luck with your work, and yes, if your novel is published, do hit me up for a blurb.

Good luck with your work.

--David

My Fixation on the Novel

It's odd.  If you'd told me 7 years ago that I'd be working on my PhD in English/Creative Writing, I would have laughed at you.  If you'd told me that I'd be working with writers like Percival Everett, Aimee Bender + TC Boyle, I would have said:  Lay off the weed, dude, it's conflating your dimensions.  If you'd told me then that in the next 7 years, I'd publish stories in journals like ZYZZYVA, African American Review, Fiction, Antioch Review, Kenyon Review, Quarter After Eight, Fiction International, Quarterly West, Stand (UK), Notre Dame Review + the Connecticut Review, with more to come inshallah, I would have said: Stop fucking with me man, it's not gonna be that easy.  And yet, even though all that shit's true, + even though I'm crazy grateful for every one of those things, the truth is, I'm not satisfied with my writing career at all, if in fact I can even call it that.

I want to publish my first novel The Amnesia of Junebugs.  I want to publish my second novel The Ninjas of My Greater Self.  While I think both novels have flaws for sure (which novels don't?), I think they're great for different reasons + deserve to be in your local bookstore as much as any other original work of literary fiction.  I have no doubt about that.  I don't doubt it for an instant.  Sure, I see momentum in my own emerging career.  Yes, I have a much stronger backbone from years of workshop critiques + gratuitous attacks by opinionated haters who don't write half as hard as I do.  Yes, I'm publishing stories in journals that I love + admire, that I grew up reading during my MFA years, journals that agents read.  Yes, I believe in myself 100% + would have killed to have been published in some of the journals my stuff appears in now.  But I'm sick of being in professional limbo where your entire life, your whole artistic career is put on hold while you scramble to get your novels published.  This isn't the goddamn 1920's--you can't live off of short stories anymore, even if you publish them in the glossies with your agent's help.

What I want is the novel.  I want my novels in bookshelves.  I want to be able to delete from my inbox a bunch of snarly, hitman-type book reviews by half-actualized, curmudgeon literary fiction writers who write these self-indulgent, in-your-face masturbatory sentences written out of envy for my own ascension.  I want to stop being a default critic of an industry I feel shut out of + start feeling like a player inside my own vocation. 

Seven years ago, I would have been happy with this progress, but not now.  Now I want more.  I want bigger dreams, I want insanity, I want my writing to receive scrutiny, adulation, innuendo, indignation, joy + Eros, I want my books to be dog-eared + heavily creased at the public library, smelling of black tea + engine grease, I want to turn on complete strangers with my sex scenes + move a reader to tears with my characters, I want cum stains, lipstick marks + tear drops on the pages of my novels. I want my unique literary voice to be part of this world, not an aspiration of grandeur.  I want to give public readings, do an interview while drunk + chat with people in bookstores about characters as if they were real.  I want my words to have resonance beyond the voice inside my own head.  I want cultural and artistic accountability, I want the consequences of affecting people, I want to share my creativity to the world, I want the unique privilege of participating, critiquing, embracing + affecting culture.  In other words, in my own selfish, arrogant, egomaniacal, grandiloquent way, I want to be an artist.  I want that.  I want all of that shit.

The way I see it:  My only hope is to either win a book contest, snag an agent or publish my novels in one of the indie presses.  That's when my career will really take off, when I become competitive for creative writing jobs at universities, when I stop questioning my literariness, when I start connecting with readers, when I start standing tall + being what I can only aspire to right now, which is myself.


Why Race Still Matters in Fiction (Reprint)

This blog entry is a reprint from 2009.  Somehow, it still feels incredibly relevant culturally to where we are right now in publishing:

Now I have nothing but love for The Missouri Review + I both respect + appreciate that the editors have the decency to write personal responses on their rejection letters when they like a story. That's nothing if not classy + amazing, especially for such a top-notch (if not impenetrable) literary journal. I don't even have beef with the editor that was kind enough to write me a personal response. I wholeheartedly appreciate both the gesture + her point of view. But I do have an issue with her analysis. Here's a copy of the rejection:
If you can't make out the editor's note, it says:

Hello, Your story was interesting, but I felt like you focused too much on G. being white--she's awful, certainly, but I don't see why race matters there. That being said-I loved the focus on words, and how you ended it. Please try us again soon with another piece.

Here's the deal:

While I totally appreciate the feedback + the honesty, the reality is that:

1. This short story is about the intersectionality of race, class + love in Southern California. It even says so in my cover letter

2. The protagonist, E., a smart Chicana girl who doesn't fit in the white or the Hispanic clique, is trying to survive at a high school where rich white girls pretty much dominate. In the end, she falls in love with an exchange student from [], which drives G. (the rich, white girl) insane

3. There's only one line where the narrator overtly mentions race, when she talks about how some rich white girls (especially in HS) hurt people because they can (a statement I still defend, with exceptions). And if race does matter in this story, I think it matters more in the way that being Latina in SoCal can be a huge obstacle to personal advancement. Sure, sure, any self-applied Latino can succeed, but he or she has to work so much harder for it than many white students from wealthy families who don't need to work half as hard. Latinos, remember, are the highest employed minority in the US. But when your parents don't speak English, or they don't speak it well, or they're working 60 hours a week, or when no one in your family has gone to college, that student has enormous obstacles to getting to college + acquiring cultural capital. That's just a reality, not even a complaint really

4. Anyone who's spent time in SoCal--especially in high school--sees the blatant socio-economic rift between Latino + white Americans. It's slowly changing, but the rich/poor gap is still a reality. My story doesn't blame white people because they're white, it shows how malicious an antagonist can be when she has money, influence + power (which, based on this country's history, is more often a white person but doesn't necessarily have to be)

5. Instead of shying away from things that make us uncomfortable (e.g. race, class, racism, gossip, jealousy) my story pretty much goes for it + tries to talk about big subjects. I'm sick of stories of paralysis, sick of stories that don't deal with the big issues, that are basically apolitical, antipolemical, self-centered little works of art that have no relationship with the greater world

6. Even if my story really did focus on race as much as the editorial assistant seemed to imply, which I think would have been totally fine, this story is above all else, a love story between a Chicana girl and an exchange student from [ ], both of whom, use words to not only express their love for each other, but also to empower themselves in a country where English is a sacred rite of passage. Beyond that, this is a revenge story, where the less-than-perfect, precocious Latina takes her revenge on the thin, rich, white, school bully who hates the fact that all of her money + power can't buy the protagonist's boyfriend. The protagonist's revenge--love it or hate it--is the way she stops feeling like a victim

7. At the end of the day, Cornell West is right: race matters.  At least to people that aren't white. Race matters less to white people because they're the majority race (percentage-wise), so when they talk about how we should just focus on merit, talent, skill, intelligence, voice, stuff like that, that's spoken hegemonically: the luxury to focus on our qualities becomes a way of differentiating us when we are racially + culturally the same. But since different people from non-hegemonic races are not only treated differently by white people, but actually perceive reality differently because of this, you can see how complicated all this gets. When a white person says to his black friend: you're so cool dude, I don't even think of you as black. This is a compliment coming from a white person because he's basically saying I see the universal in you, I relate with you, I connect with you + I don't feel like race is getting in the way. But for many people of color, this is racial erasure. It's like someone taking away a unique set of experiences that have shaped you, experiences fundamentally different than those of your white friend, experiences that are often painful, contrary to those of your friends + sometimes distressing too, but experiences that your friend didn't have, experiences that affect you a great deal, even when you're over them.

So, I apologize for this spiel, but I bring this up for one basic reason: when the good-intentioned editor says "I don't see why race matters in this story," the problem is that for many white readers, race has never had to matter, either in life or in a story--but this is white privilege, the privilege of being allowed to ignore your own race, something most people of color I know never get to do.  When you're white + you drive a BMW, you don't get pulled over unless you're speeding.  When you're black + you drive a BMW, you get pulled over just for being black + having a nice car (happens all the time, by the way).  Suddenly, you become very aware of your race.  Same shit walking through a gated community when you're the "wrong" color.  Or when you try to become a member of your local country club.  Or when you're wearing a hoodie in Samford, Florida.

And for me (a hapa who looks white + is treated white/latino all the time), race matters a great deal, not just the part you see (or the part you think you see), but also the part you don't see (ironically, the part that has shaped me the most, the Japanese side, the blue mosaic me). Race has a huge effect on how I see the world + how the world sees me. So, when conservatives argue that cops aren't racist, they're not completely lying from their point of view. They don't see racism because they're white, wealthy + connected, + cops don't harass them, so you can see why they actually believe what they say (of course, some don't want to see it either because that would be a personal indictment of their simplistic cosmology). Ditto with fiction. When minority writers or writers from minority cultures discuss so-called minority issues in their stories that are remotely racial, social or political, white readers + editors want to know why does it have to be about race, gender, orientation, politics? Why can't it just be about people? My answer: it is about people, but people that aren't always white (or straight or male or politically neutral or paralyzed or frivolously dramatic) who are never able to forget who they are, whether they want to or not. Race (like other minority cultural identities) is an everyday reality, not some thematic obsession. This is something that's hard for white readers--even the best of them--to grasp sometimes because they've been brainwashed with the mantra that only talent + artistic merit should be important. But racial erasure can be just as bad as racialization, especially when you tell a writer of color that nothing they've gone through is important.  And yet, stories come from somewhere + that somewhere tends to come out in their stories.

Quasi-Obnoxious Rejection from Chicago Review

I rarely take rejections personally anymore, even ones from agents.  And I don't take this rejection personally either, not only because I've always had mixed feelings about the editorial direction of the  Chicago Review (different reasons at different times), but also because, well, art is completely subjective + each editor is entitled to different aesthetic + stylistic tastes in her/his journal.  But, I do find the tone of this rejection to be completely fucking obnoxious + for that, I'd like to point that out.  In case you can't read this little masterpiece, it says:

Dear Author,
Thank you for submitting to Chicago Review.  We're sorry to report that we are not going to publish your story.  Good luck finding a bitchier rejection anywhere in the whole world placing it elsewhere.
The Editors

My Own Personal "Ranking" of Literary Journals for 2012

It seems like nowadays, every single literary blog has a ranking of literary journals, often interconnected somehow with Pushcart Prizes or O. Henry Prizes or Best American Stories 20##.  And while I can both understand + even appreciate those metrics, I don't think prizes tell the whole story, for like several reasons:

1.  It's impossible for the above prizes to have objective judges since art + artistic merit is intrinsically subjective by nature.  The proof of this is the way one novel is rejected by 200 agents + then passionately embraced by the next, only to get published + becomes a NYT bestseller, or the way one short story is rejected 40 times by 40 journals, only to finally get published in a tiny lit journal that ends up winning one of these above prizes for nominating that story.  Either there was some cosmic psychic shift that took place that changed everyone's minds or that story that had been rejected by 40 journals was probably already kinda awesome, so how could 40 readers fail to see that?  Or conversely, maybe that story really did suck, but then how could a group of tough editors elect it to one of the highest prizes in literary fiction?  Either way, we have to agree that objectivity is probably pointless + probably impossible for evaluating art.  So let's acknowledge that some of the stories that win prizes are simply fucking awesome + others are, well, not as good as your shit.

2.  I could be wrong about this, but I have a strong feeling that each prize has its own filter bias that separates stories into yes + no camps, almost unconsciously.  By that, I mean that readers/editors for Best American Stories, for example, are reading the New Yorker with the assumption that they'll find something  that will win another prize whereas they probably read Santa Monica Review not actually knowing if they'll find anything there or not, which is a damn shame let me tell you.  Ditto with the Pushcart et al.  I'm sure the readers + editors of the Pushcart Prize read Agni + Ploughshares + Prairie Schooner + the New England Review + Tin House with the expectation that they'll find something worthwhile.  But with the other journals, I'm sure those readers have to be convinced first, which means stories outside of the literary Parthenon can't simply be as good as stories in the New Yorker, they would have to be actually better in many ways to stand out + meet that burden of proof.  In other words, readers for prizes are looking for new prize winners in a small list of journals, whereas they're reading other journals skeptically, trying to find stories that are worthy of their prize in the first place.  And I'd argue that simple paradigmatic difference of reading totally prejudices their reading.

Again, this isn't to say that the pieces included in those anthologies aren't awesome, because honestly, I've read quite a few of them + many times, they're as awesome as advertised.  But sometimes, you wonder if stories get selected in part because the author is already well known, thereby proving how smart the editors are.  I mean, they must be smart because they picked yet another story by this famous author who has published a shitload of books + who has a first-choice clause with the New Yorker, so they must be awesome writers.  Of course, they really are sometimes.  But how does anyone funnel 3,000 stories into a goddamn 12-story anthology?  I don't have a fucking clue, but I can see the temptation to include writers who have already proven themselves because the literary establishment has already decided how talented they are.  But I digress.

So, here are my own rankings of literary journals with the following caveats:

1.  These rankings are totally subjective, but at least I can admit it.
2.  My only methodology is answering this question:  Have I read a short story/essay in this journal that I loved?  How often did that happen, holistically, speaking?  In other words, this ranking privileges fiction because that's what I do.  I can envision an entirely separate ranking for other genres, I'm just not qualified enough to do so
3.  They're not actually rankings.  In fact, I'm going to list them randomly in order to deprivilege the journals that are listed earlier in the list
4.  This list is intentionally incomplete.  I'm not comfortable including journals I haven't read, but I encourage all of you to make our own "ranking" that fits your own personal experience if you have a blog, or a friend who can't talk back

Here they are:

My 2012 "Ranking" of Literary Journals


Narrative
New Yorker (they don't need a link)
Slate (okay, just for poetry, but they do publish some great shit)
Yomama's Literary Journal  Okay, I just made that last one up to see if you were paying attention.


2nd Story Accepted in 2012

I was at Argo Café, the one near the Water Tower when I checked my email on my iPhone + saw this message today:

Dear Jackson,

I am writing to let you know that Bob Fogarty, the Antioch Review editor, is trying to reach you.  He sent you an email and called as well.  Perhaps you can try to reach him at ***-***-****.

Thanks, M*****

Now, Bob sent me a nice rejection letter last year for a story I'd sent him + also told me to give my regards to Aimee + Tom the next time I saw them since he'd published stories by both of them both in the 80's + also more recently.  So I called him, my heart beating madly in my once-sticky t-shirt (typical Chicago summer, man).  I figured he just wanted to talk to me about my story + tell me the things that didn't work for him, a sort of gracious rejection.  But he was out, so I was left in complete suspense.  As it turned out, he'd sent me this email that never made it to me until a month later (5 August 2012, to be exact), which would have cleared up a lot of things:

 Jackson:

Thanks for the call. I read your story and want to take it for AR.  I will call this afternoon.

Bob Fogarty

Later on, he called me + we did talk for a good twenty minutes about David St. Jean, who was the former poetry editor at the Antioch Review (my first year at USC, I took this amazing interdisciplinary graduate seminar with David St. Jean + Frank Tichelli, a class where poets wrote a series of poems, ending in a complete poetic cycle, +  then composers set those lyrics to music + finally MA + PhD musical performance students performed the music with your words--fucking amazing).  Then, we talked about Tom, Aimee, Rogers Park (where I live now, what I called a little Berkeley + Bob called a little Brooklyn), how walkable Chicago is, how great its mass transit is + about how creative programs are slowly being devoured by English Departments (Read:  Columbia College).  And then at the end of all of that, Bob told me he really liked the energy, voice + intensity of my short story "The Blue Men inside My Head," + thought the length was appropriate for the subject matter + that he'd be happy to publish it in the Antioch Review.  Again, if I'd received the above email, the suspense wouldn't have suffocated me so much!  Still, I was so excited I almost came in my pants.  Fortunately, I recovered + told him I was really flattered/excited/happy to finally get a piece in his journal.

To give you an idea of how badass this journal is (if you already know, feel free to skip this part), the Antioch Review is one of the oldest literary journals in the country + has published luminaries like:  Ralph Ellison, John Dewey, Philip Levine, Sylvia Plath, William Trevor, TC Boyle (holler!), Gordan Lish, Raymond fucking Carver, Edith Pearlman, Aimee Bender, Bret Lott, Ha Jin, among others.  It's just such an amazing honor to get a story accepted in this journal.  I've sending stories to this journal off + on for over 7 years. And now, it's all worth it.    

(Another) Good Rejection from A Public Space

Dear Jackson Bliss,

Thank you for your patience. We had a chance to read " . . . " this month, and while we are returning this piece, we would be interested in reading more of your work and encourage you to submit again when you have new work.

Our submission system reopens on September 15. In the meantime, please join us on Twitter or visit our website (www.apublicspace.org) to keep in touch.

Thank you again for thinking of APS for " . . . " We hope you have a lovely summer!

With very best wishes,
A Public Space

At Least I Know My Writing is Hot

And the battle continues, my friends:

Dear Jackson Bliss,

Pleased to have your project, " . . .", what a provocative title.  Clearly, your writing is HOT, which is why Tom Boyle recommended you, I’m sure.  And yet, I’ve found that I’m just not connecting w the material in the way I’d hoped, and am having some trouble w the narrative voice. It somehow reads more like a memoir than a novel, and can feel predictable. Of course, I could be totally wrong about this, and a big house may be excited to sign on. Otherwise I see this as a better fit for a smaller house, in which case you don’t necessarily need an agent. This is entirely an objective opinion, as you know, and I’ll wish you the very best with another agency!

Shall be cheering you on, and thank you again for the look, and for Tom’s kind referral.

Sandy Dijkstra

After the bad news, I did the one thing that always makes sense after a big rejection, I submitted my novel to Graywolf Press.  Ding, ding:  Round 9.

Sent My Second Novel to Sandra Dijkstra

If you'll remember, Tom ran into Sandra Dijkstra a year and a half ago at some literary event + asked him if he could recommend any up-and-coming fiction writers to her. TC Boyle was kind enough to recommend me (which was relatively easy for him to do because I'd just taken a workshop with him the previous semester so my work was pretty fresh in his mind), after which, she told him to tell me I should send her my novel. So, I stopped by Tom's office where he promptly hand-wrote a referral letter for me on SC stationery, sealed the envelope + then plopped the letter in outgoing campus mail. I was so flattered + excited. But then a week later, I sent Sandra Dijkstra a query letter with my first novel + I never received a reply. To be honest, I was really pissed off.

But because I'm a stubborn motherfucker + also because glitches in the matrix happen all the time, I decided to write Sandra Dijkstra a year letter with a new query letter for my second novel, just to see what would happen. And miraculously: It turns out that they never got my first query letter. This shit happens all the time, man. If anything, I was relieved to hear they hadn't received my first query letter because I was superfrustrated at not getting a response. Anyway, long story short, they apologized for not getting my first email but told me they'd love to read my second novel, so I've been doing a master revision for the past two weeks + I just sent them the entire novel a few minutes ago. Would it be fucking amazing if they picked me up? Hell yes. Do I think this is really gonna happen? No idea. See, one of my biggest problems is that I always think everything could change in a flash + I keep pushing for that moment to happen. But I make no assumptions, I just cross my fingers during these liminal moments + keep on writing. Maybe it'll work out. Maybe not, but either way, it's a chance I didn't have before.

Chang-rae Lee Writes Back

Out of the blue I decided to write Chang-rae Lee + ask him for advice on literary agents. I was just curious to know if he knew any agents that were especially interested in Asian American cultural narratives. Anyway, shortly after I wrote him, he was gracious enough to write back. Here's his response:

Jackson,

Greetings. I don't really know many agents who have a special affinity for As-Am writing (mine would certainly say she doesn't, but rather just "good" writing, though of course there are many definitions of that!), but perhaps I could suggest T****** P***, who has her own agency and is highly respected.

In any case, good luck with the book, and the books. . .

best,
CRL

Short Story Published in Quarter after Eight

After submitting stories to this journal since 2005, I'm totally stoked to say that my short story, "Kothar" was finally published in volume #18 of the journal of innovative writing, Quarter after Eight. And even more cool for me, Aimee Bender + Bonnie Nadzam are also in the same issue as I am. So now I'm feeling just great for a few minutes.

Talking about Mountain Lions at TC Boyle's House

LB + I were in Santa Barbara last weekend.  I mentioned this to Tom earlier in the week + he told me to stop on by his house.  I believe the exact words he used were "pop by for a bit."  LB was fidgeting during the whole car ride, at the Vietnamese restaurant where we ate lunch with the unfriendly waitress, driving up the hill to Tom's place.  We parked on the street, kicked open a stuck gate door + saw this:

Then we walked down the pathway where Tom eventually greeted us at a side entrance. He gave us the grand tour of his amazing Frank Lloyd Wright house (which was the partial inspiration of The Women, a fact he pointed to us as we were talking around, taking in the pouring sunlight inside his house). I knelt on the floor and looked through Tom's glass bookshelves, filled in neat, long rows of his books translated into 12 different languages. Man, I thought, this dude is the straight dope. He's the real thing.

After introducing us to his 17-year old cat, who seemed shocked that I'd interrupt her during her catnap to pet her, we met Tom's wife (Karen) + then walked into the backyard and to an adjacent yard where Tom's daughter lives (I guess). Then we drank red wine with Tom, Karen, one of Tom's gregarious millionaire neighbors whose teeth were eerily perfect + his Siberian wife, Tom + Karen's daughter's boyfriend, Spence, + this dude who looked vaguely familiar, who was housesitting for Tom's daughter + I believe was also in the process of making Anne-Marie's book trailer for Two Dollar Radio Press. But I dunno, maybe I totally fucked up that whole who's who. LB + I politely passed on the stinky French cheese (because we're both vegan), but did nibble on potato chips. And man, some of the things we talked about were absolutely strange. A few highlights:

1. Speaking in French with The Man with Perfect Teeth (ah, combien tu me manques, la langue française!)

2. Getting in a long, heated, but largely one-sided argument with Tom's wife about what a total fascist Steve Jobs was + how much better Bill Gates was. The truth is, I love me some Apple products, but I abhor Apple labor practices in China in much the same way I abhor the manufacturing of virtually all tech stuff in Asia. I also love/admire the hundreds of millions of dollars that Bill Gates has donated to charities, as well as his immunization project since his retirement from Microsoft. But, as I pointed out, Bill Gates was as much of a fascist when he was Microsoft's CEO as Steve Jobs was with Apple (both of them stealing shit from the little guy), so it's a wash. This is where I thought we were gonna come to a compromise, but then Karen started ranting about the way Steve Jobs disowned his own daughter. This is when Tom came to my rescue + said that the topic we were talking passionately about was one of his wife's little obsessions.
--It's not an obsession, she snapped.
I laughed, sipped my wine, and realized I kinda liked Karen's spunk. She's got chutzpah, man

3. Getting in a prolonged conversation with Tom + the neighbor with the perfect teeth about--of all things--brown bears, moose and mountain lions. Tom said he's seen several mountain lions during his strolls around his neighborhood + had almost run into several bears too. I was thinking: Man, I have absolutely nothing to contribute to this conversation

4. Talking with Spence about living in Argentina for a year + learning the art of voseo + rioplaténse Spanish

5. Hearing Tom call my wife LB (which is my nickname for her that I claim is her actual name whenever I introduce her to people. Actually, it stands for "little bug," but Tom said he liked LB, in part, because it's like "TC")

6. Getting in a nice, long conversation with Tom about The Ninjas of My Greater Self, which he's probably going to read this summer since he's my thesis director. I told him that after not hearing from Sandra Dijkstra for a year, I'd sent her office a new query letter for NINJAS + got a gracious response soon after explaining that they never got my first query letter (which I totally believe) but that they'd love to read NINJAS. Tom seemed pleased about this. You have to remember: He ran into Sandra Dijkstra a year ago, who'd asked him if he had any writers to recommend + he told her about me + she'd shown interest in reading my work, so Tom had written a personal letter on my behalf right in front of me in his office. Then, I'd sent the agency a query letter for BLANK + nothing. Now, we know why. Obviously, this new development is much promising for me. FYI, I'm revising NINJAS for like the 100th time + I'm planning on sending Sandra Dijkstra my novel sometime in the next week. I also learned through talking to Tom with my stained, red lips + tannin in my teeth, that Sandra Dijkstra represents another one of Tom's former students, Chris Abani, author of Graceland, among other novels, so maybe, just maybe there's even a little precedent on my side. Either way, it's still an opportunity I didn't have before I was one of his students, so I'm extremely honored to have this chance.

7. Right before LB + I left, I told Tom about my vision: I want to become a spokesperson for a cultural revolution that embraces technological innovation (like my fucking dope new ipad I use to read the Huffington Post + Le Monde) but also consciously embraces old skool media, like record players + most importantly for me, hardcover books! He liked it. T

8. I confessed to Tom that I'm a writer because it's the only thing I'm actually great at. Sure, I can play piano + write electronic music pretty well. I'm proficient with foreign languages. I love understanding people + relationships, I'm intuitive + a passionate lover. I'm also a pretty good cook + my sense of style is respectable. But, writing is the thing I'm really fucking good at, the one thing where I feel I can make an important + unique contribution to this world. I may not be able to figure out a viable two-state solution in Israel/Palestine, but I can write the fuck out of a novel.

9. Tom told me I'm like him because my writing has a lot of energy + I love giving readings, I love the performative, interactive element of being an author as much as I love the writing itself, which is important. That's when I realized that I'm just a little bit like Tom (or an early version of him), which is probably one of the reasons I applied to SC in the first place, to work with such a literary legend.

My Summer Just Got a Little Easier

Summers are always a source of anxiety for grad students (do I teach comp? Do I grade AP exams? Do I work for minimum wage at an indie bookstore? Do I schlepp mocha lattes to IT professionals? Do I apply for some random travel grant for grad students who are of mixed Armenian-Azeri-Turkish descent + also gay, fans of Ayn Raynd, and former wards of the state?). For this reason, summers for me now are diametrical to childhood summers, when simply muttering the word "summer" evoked images of swimming, summer camp, girls in jean shorts, festivals, watermelon, fireworks, cherry pies and gilded skin. Adulthood is nasty that way. But I just found out yesterday that I received an ACE/Nikaido fellowship for this summer (my second one in two years), which will give me enough money to pay my bills, split rent with LB, study conversational Japanese in Chicago at the Japan America Society of Chicago (god knows I need it considering my nihongo still sounds like a babbling 6-year old) + most importantly, spend this summer reading books for my dissertation, revising NINJAS, starting a third novel + writing the critical portion of my dissertation. I don't have a wealthy daddy or a trust fund or leftover cash from a recent stock transaction, but what I do have is institutional support for this summer + next year (when I go on advanced fellowship), so I'm insanely grateful for that. Also, I have a wife who has a real job + that of course helps the most.

My Reponse to a Writer Suggesting I Close Down Blue Mosaic Me

I received this email a few hours ago from someone with a fake, brand-new gmail address:

Hello. For a long time I've been checking your blog, just to see how things are working out. I've been accepted by agents and magazines where you've been rejected, and we've been rejected by the same places too. We have other shit in common. And in some ways you have huge advantages over me - but let's not go into that. Can I give you some advice? Don't chronicle your every rejection on the website. Don't write about your private conversations with well-known authors. Be discreet. Be professional. Shut down the blog. You seem to have a nice life. Your girl is beautiful man. So fuck the artist manque blog. Just write. Peace.

And here's my response:

dear J***,

i respect your opinion completely, but there's not a chance in hell i'd shut down my blog, so dream on. first off, i don't post every rejection i get. in fact, out of the 100 or so rejections i receive every year, i only post a tiny fraction of the good ones + the snarky ones because they both affect me intensely but in different ways. if i "chronicled" every damn rejection i got, my blog would be fucking depressing, but i have no intention of reminding myself or my readers of how tough this industry is, which leads me to my third point: you have no idea how many aspiring writers thank me all the damn time for writing my blog, not only because it primarily helps them to believe in themselves--an easy thing to lose in this profession--but also because it gives them an honest but brutal understanding of how tough it is trying to get published, which is very grounding. also, so many writers have thanked me for opening up my life with/to them, because it's allowed them to get advice and learn things from some prominent fiction writers without having to actually be in a prestigious MFA/PhD program/residence/whatever. beyond that, i'd say that my conversations with authors are mine to do with what i what. i'm not revealing state or family secrets of the authors, i'm mostly sharing their thoughts on craft, writing trends + authors, which is useful shit. and writers like TC Boyle, i know for a fact he doesn't give a shit what i post on my blog because he's told me point blank that he doesn't. it's a blog for christ's sake, not a rant column + tom understands very well that writers have to create their own audience/readers + nothing is gonna curtail his prodigious writing anyway. lastly, my blog is ultimately for me because it helps me historicize my publication trajectory: it helps me plot out when i sent what story to which journal, helps me decipher between a form and personal rejection, gives me self-confidence on rainy days, helps me connect with other aspiring writers, reminds me of all the bruises i've gotten scrapping like i do, but at the same time, my secret hope has always been that my blog can make a difference in other writer's lives too, + so far, the evidence has been overwhelmingly positive, so i know that i am + that makes me feel good.

i understand why you might feel that my blog--or least what my blog does--is unprofessional. i also understand why you encourage me to just write. but these two comments imply a number of things i take issue with: one, that blogging isn't writing, + it absolutely is. two, that if i'm blogging, i'm not writing, which again is patently untrue. yo, i write all the fucking time + let me tell you, blogging + working on my second novel are in no way mutually exclusive. they're actually interanimating in an important way. three, that conversations with famous authors shouldn't be divulged, and yet not only do i know these authors don't have a problem with it (you do, not them, let's be clear about that), but i'd argue that in my blogging about those authors helps in a miniscule way in keeping them in the blogosphere. beyond that, i'd never post something really fucked up because my intention isn't to bring down great authors, but to primarily help me remember what we talked about before i forget that shit, and secondarily, to deprivilege + open up my experience as a PhD student at USC to anyone who wants to be included in that, which, as it turns out, is a shitload of people. BMM, above all things, is an emotionally honest blog, but it is overwhelmingly positive in that it affirms an indomitable belief in art, hard work, the kindness/intelligence of talented writers + the million baby steps it takes to really make it as a literary fiction writer. you don't have to agree + obviously don't, but it's empowering, not a work of egomania. it's brutally honest, not nihilistic or snarky. it's an act of determination, not a work of complete industrial defiance.

i'm genuinely happy for you that you're getting published in great journals, even ones that i've been rejected from. that's awesome. you've obviously figured out your own path to getting published. but i'm working on my own shit out in my own way. and while i think your email wants to imply that you've had greater success in publishing than i have because you're not unprofessional the way i am, i don't think that's true at all.

i hope you're well.

peace, blessings, love,

-j1b

Disappointing Form(ish) Rejection from Georges Borchardt

Dear Jackson,

Thank you for sending in the complete " . . . ". Several of us here have now read your manuscript and I'm afraid we are just not quite passionate enough about this project. This is, of course, completely subjective and I'm sure you'll find the right home for this soon.

Best of luck,

Georges

I don't know what makes me sadder, the fact that Georges rejected my novel or that he sent me a fucking form rejection. Fuck, man. This hurts inside. I'm not gonna lie. But, after I get my shit together--and I will, make no mistake about that--I'm gonna pick myself back up + send my novel to some more agents. My novel has a place in this world + I need to figure out where that is. For now, I'm gonna listen to Arcade Fire, get my snack on + send out some submissions to journals.

I don't give up. I just don't. I can't.

There's Something Kinda Punk Rock about You, TC Boyle

I stopped by Tom's office yesterday to get his signature for my qualifying committee forms + also shoot the shit. I haven't chatted with him in quite awhile except for the occasional email. I have to say, I wasn't disappointed. Among the many highlights of our conversation, we talked about:

1. Tom's relationship with John Cheever at the Iowa Writers Workshop (IWW) who apparently was always drunk all the time, but was also gentle, insightful + brilliant considering he got kicked out of high school for smoking + never returned.

2. Tom's relationship with Raymond Carver, who he said, like John Cheever, drank and smoked all the fucking time. TC Boyle told me that for a while, Iowa was distancing itself from Raymond Carver, but that he + all of his classmates thought that Carver was a genius + that once the NYT Review of Books starting heaping a shitload of praise on Carver's work, the IWW asked him to teach a workshop.

3. Lan Samantha Chang, who Tom calls "Sam." I confessed to Tom that I wasn't particularly impressed with Hunger + that I'd read other Iowa fiction writers that I was much more impressed with. Tom said he hadn't read Hunger, but agreed that he didn't think she was an amazing writer based on the stories he'd read of hers, but he also argued that she had the hardest job in creative writing, which is probably true. I wouldn't want that gig. Too much pressure, man.

4. Dave Eggers, who Tom said was one of the nicest guys in the business. Not a great writer or a great reader, for that matter, an evaluation I happen to agree with having met Dave at his book signing at the Notre Dame Literary Festival back in 2006, but by all means, an important writer if for no other reason than his 826 volunteer organization, the creation of McSweeney's, The Believer, his political engagement of Sudanese causes + his annual Nonrequired Reading Anthology are all awesome, important + amazing literary things that make this world a better place. But in terms of Eggers's reading persona, that's a totally different deal. In fact, Tom mentioned that while he liked Dave Eggers a lot as a person, he found his performance as a public reader left much to be desired, in part because instead of actually reading his novel to his audience/fangirls/fanboys, Eggers mostly talks about random shit, cracks jokes, tells stories, which Tom sees as belittling Egger's own writing. And I have to say: I agree.

Near the end of our chat, I told Tom that I knew there was a reason that I always wanted to work with him when I was working on my MFA: --There's something kinda punk rock about your attitude as a writer that I really enjoy, I said, in part because it happens to be close to my own vision, though I lack the awards.
--Oh, they'll come, he said, and someday when your novel is getting a lot of buzz, you'll have to deal with all of this too.
--Well, anyway, I guess I see a kindred spirit.
That's when Tom smiled, we shook hands + said goodbye. It was a perfect chat with TC Boyle.

Well, Here Goes Nothing

So I finally did it, I sent my complete, fully revised manuscript + sophomore novel, The Ninjas of My Greater Self, to agent extraordinaire, Georges Borchardt, agent of Elie Wiesel, Ian McEwan, Robert Coover, TC Boyle, who is also in charge of the estates of Tennessee Williams, Aldous Huxley + John Gardner, this is the man who first introduced America to Lacan, Barthes, Bourdieu, Fanon, Duras, Foucault, Ionesco + Sartre. Yes, this dude is a big fucking deal, representing over 8 Pulitzer Prize winners + 2 Noble Prize winners, in fact, he may be the biggest fucking deal I've submitted to in my entire life. And while sending him my novel (which he asked for in its entirety last year after I'd sent him the first 145 pages + an outline) honestly scares the shit out of me because it puts me on the chopping block, at the same time, I kinda want to get this over with, one way or another. Does that sound bleak? I guess it does. But Ninjas is the best thing I've ever written yet. It's a fucking awesome novel, it really is.

And at this point, while nothing would make me happier in the whole fucking world than for Georges to pick me up as a client, if he doesn't, I guess at this point, I want to know that, accept that + go on with my life + stop pining for something that's not gonna happen. It's just the realist in me. Of course I'd be bummed if he didn't give me a shot, but I'd find a way to soldier on. Hopefully, though, he loves this novel enough to say yes. God knows how that would totally transform my writing career . . . I hope he sees what I see. It could be the beginning of something massive if he did.