Good Rejection from Narrative

Dear Jackson Bliss:

Thank you for sending your work to Narrative. We are always grateful for the opportunity to review new material, and we have given " . . " close attention and careful consideration. We found many strengths to recommend your work and, overall, much to admire. We regret, however, that " . . . " is not quite right for us. We encourage you try us again in the future, and we hope that you will.

Sincerely,

The Editors

Lucy Carson Requests Full Manuscript of Ninjas

After a month, I thought Lucy Carson had erased my query letter.  Because I have my shit together (I'm OCD), I keep a linear log of all my submissions (both to agents, literary journals + CW jobs), with color coding based on the final results of each submission.  Black = manuscript still in play.  Orange = manuscript being reviewed (useful only for submishmash/journals with online submission manager).  Light grey = rejection (because it's the easiest on the eyes).  Green = acceptance.  Blue = withdrawn.  Red = who who the fuck knows what happened?  The point being, after a week, I'd already changed my query status for Lucy Carson from black to red because I hadn't heard a thing.  Usually, when agents don't respond within a week, they don't respond at all.  That's been my experience 99.999% of the time.  But today:  Jackson, meet exception.  Exception, Jackson.

Today I got a very gracious response today from Lucy Carson requesting the entire novel.  She also thanked me for my kind words for one of her clients, Ruth Ozeki, who I read at USC + mentioned in my query letter.  Some of the clients at The Friedrich Agency include:  The Pulitzer prize-winning Jane Smiley, Esmeralda Santiago, Ruth Ozeki, Carol Muske-Dukes (a USC poet, no less) + Elena Gorokhova.  Not bad at all.  But to put things in perspective, statistically speaking, the number of literary fiction writers + male writers at this agency is slim.  So, I'm not going to delude myself into expecting miracles here.  But, I def appreciate the full manuscript request.  Now let's see if it's a good fit for her.  If not, I'm certainly flattered nevertheless that a tech-savvy agent like LC showed interest in my novel. 

Shoutouts from the Universe Part 2

I'm still not sure how Google alerts missed this one but I won't complain.  I feel I should be grateful to get any press as a writer, moreover relatively good press.

Here's the part about my experimental short story, "When Silence is an Old Warehouse and Love is a Pocketful of Rocks":


In case you can't read that because you're not an Air Force pilot/weren't born with x-ray vision/never got the cyborg optical enhancements for your Sweet-16, here's what it says:

Many of the most interesting pieces of fiction examine or undermine ideas of speaker, information, or the traditional narrative arc. One notable love story about communication and art, by Jackson Bliss, labels each paragraph as either "Cubes," "Spheres," Cylinders," or "Cones." The speaker is self-consciously prolix, by turns witty and earnest, and the drama he recounts over an uninitiated conversation is handled nicely. 

Now, to be honest, I find nothing insightful about this review.  I don't personally think the narrator is prolix, though I agree he's self-conscious. I'm not convinced that my short story is about "communication + art" either as much as I think it's about the male gaze, invented alternative realities + romantic speculation.  It's about the way in which art theory/art history filters the way we understand + identify our reality.  It's also about the delusional genius/endless violence of the human mind.  Lastly, this short story is about one-way love.  The educated observer/narrator is in love with a girl he's never talked to.  She's in love with a painting.  They mirror their one-sided relationship both to each other + to their objets d'art.  But like I really care?  More than anything, I'm just glad someone's reading my shit.  On that level, I'm ecstatic. 


Good Rejection from Conjunctions

Good Rejections are tough, especially when you get them from top-tier journals.  In fact, you could make the argument that the better the journal, the more a good rejection stings.  I think it works inversely too (i.e., a good rejection from a meh journal feels pretty damn good).  Still, it's hard not to take away something positive from this rejection, so I'll try to stick to the silver lining here, even though I've been sending Conjunctions stories for years now.  This is the second time I've gotten a really positive response for this short story (the first being from Electric Literature) + the second time I've gotten good feedback from this journal, so there's always that.

In case you can't make out this rejection slip, it says:

Dear Jackson,

 I found your story delightful + intriguing, unfortunately we are looking for stories for our animal issue, "A Menagerie."  

Since when did Conjunctions starts becoming a themed journal?  Who fucking knows, since now, I guess.  Still, if I had to pick a reason for my story to be rejected, I guess this would be it.  I think the reader was very gracious to write these words + I'll remember them the next time I get a form rejection in the mail.

Resisting False Dichotomies (AKA a Month of Fidgeting)

I do my best to resist false dichotomies.  Not only are they warped, fucked up little distortions of reality, but they're also usually untrue.  This is why false dichotomies are considered a logical fallacy, one I taught my students at USC to identify + deconstruct.  But sometimes your life actually is one + that's where things really go to shit.  And the worst part is, this happens almost every 2-4 years . . .

When I was finishing my MFA at Notre Dame, I was waiting to hear back from a bunch of creative writing fellowships, a teaching position for the JET program + Notre Dame's Sparks Prize.  To be honest, it was scary as shit because  I knew in exactly one month I was either going to be flat broke with absolutely no job prospects, no funding, no school--my inertial dream coming to a sudden + dramatic halt--or I would live to fight another day as an aspiring writer.  The one thing I thought I had the best chance of getting (the JET program position) I wasn't even a fucking alternate for.  I guess I should have seen the signs considering the 3 people in my interview were assholes, insinuating in their questions that I was too old for the JET program, that my lip piercing made me unfit to teach English, that I would AWOL anyway (they ignored of course, my years of experience teaching English/Writing to Mexican immigrants, international students + Cuban refugees, but let's not get technical).  But the thing I thought I had the least chance of getting (the Sparks Prize), in part because I was competing against my entire graduating class + in part because my writing isn't mainstream (which was supposedly part of the judging criteria), and yet, I won that damn thing.  Suddenly, I had funding for a whole year, I got to give a reading of my novel in progress on campus + I started dating LB in Chicago.  In many ways, winning the Sparks Prize defied logic but it also made perfect sense.

Fast-forward to Buenos Aires.  After living in South America for a year + literally crying at the thought of eating another motherfucking empanada or walking into pile of dog shit, I realized that I just wasn't writing enough.  In fact, I'd only written two new short stories + revised BLANK, my first novel, in the entire time I'd been living in Cap. Fed.  So, I talked to Valerie Sayers, my thesis adviser at Notre Dame + told her I was considering applying to PhD programs in English/Creative Writing + she was like:  Go for it, Jackson.  I applied to FSU + USC + got waitlisted at both schools (which was a blow to my ego, but whatevs).  At the end of March, I got into USC, which was my dream program since I really loved TC Boyle + Aimee Bender's short stories, I was intrigued with LA + I'd be an hour and a half drive away from my mom.  Out of all my options, getting into USC was the best case scenario.  I honestly wrote it off by March.  And I knew that if I hadn't gotten in, once again, my dream to become a published novelist would slowly die with a five-day a week.  But I got in + disaster was averted.  This gave me the time to write + workshop a second novel, get some stories published in some prominent journals, work with a few literary heavyweights + read a shitload of novels.  It was honestly as awesome as I'd hoped it'd be.

Now I'm back at the same either/or fallacy:  I just finished my PhD + my MA in English/Creative Writing at USC, which is one of the seminal moments in my life + now I'm fighting to keep that dream alive for another year (or two), for another month (or three).  But the options are so dramatically antithetical it's ridiculous.  Either I score an teaching position or creative writing fellowship in the next couple months, or frankly, I start making mocha lattes dressed in an apron + barista visor.  I know that sounds dramatic.  I know that sounds insane.  I know that sounds like I've simplified my reality, but this is the continuous struggle of being an emerging writer in the US:  Trying to scrap together funding or score a teaching gig or win a fellowship or win a book prize or live temporarily at a writing residency, all that, all of that shit, just to keep your dream alive until you finally make it (which will be never), or at least, until your books are published by Riverhead.

At this point, if I could do anything else in the world to make a living, if there was anything else I was as good at, as devoted to, if there was anything else I had as much talent + passion + dedication + vision as with writing, If there was anything else that fucked me up + made me as bipolar + euphoric + as certain of my place in this galaxy as writing does, I would totally run off + do that because this writing life is nothing but a slow-mo existential crisis, a chess match with yourself, an artistic war with almost no survivors.  But dude, I can't help it.  This is the only thing I'm awesome at, the only thing that has ever made sense to me, the only thing that has kept me up at night + woken my ass up in the early morning, the only thing that I could do for days without food or water, the only thing that threatens my marriage + confuses my family, the only thing that rings inside of me like a broken campanile + gives me cosmic significance as nothing else ever has.  It's all or nothing, man.  It's all or nothing.

Reaching People in Your Writing

I got this email a few days ago, the kind that makes you feel great about being a writer.  I love connecting with other writers + I also appreciate it when strangers do kind things (for anyone).  Something as simple as forwarding my name to Roxane Gay's writers of color project is such a beautiful + appreciated thing.  And as long as there are people reading your fiction, then your writing has cultural resonance, which is what we all want on some level.  It's interesting for me to hear from people who witnessed the LROD scrap I got in (pretty much me against the world).  I can't tell you how many  friends I've made through my website.  Thank god for the digital era!

Jackson Bliss,

I've been following your writing for quite some time (I think ever since your kerfuffle with the Literary Rejections On Display blog, now defunct). I was actually also one of the ones who forwarded your name to Roxane Gay who did that list of writers of color who should be noticed (I saw from your blog that someone else mentioned you as well. Right on). I'd been a casual observer of your work, refraining from messaging you or commenting. However, this semester in the creative writing class I teach, I've assigned my students to do presentations on stories they find from online and print journals. We've just finished up the presentations from stories they picked from an online journal of their choice and are moving on to stories from a print journal. Today one of my students wanted to check in with me over a story she is going to present on, and I looked at it and realized it was one of yours, first published in The Antioch Review."What are the odds?" I wondered, and I thought I should send you this message.  I'm a writer as well. I know what it's like to feel as if the work you're doing isn't reaching people, so I wanted to let you know that your stories are reaching others. 

So, keep going, for what it's worth. Also, good luck with your PhD program. I just started one here in Missouri and jesus christ is it a lot of work.


Take care,

T****

Lyrical Essay Published in Kartika Review

It's tough writing about your family, even tougher I think writing about your Japanese Grandmother when she was the heart + soul of your family as mine was.  Years after she passed away, I'm still trying to understand how much of my own cultural identity came from her, from our conversations, our meals + our holiday traditions, from her stories of Japan + of our Japanese family in Tokyo + Osaka.  After taking a class on war + memory with Viet Nguyen at USC during my early PhD years, Viet allowed me to write a lyrical essay instead of an analytical one for our final paper, which was an amazing blessing.  After a lot of intermittent revision over two years + more recently with the CNF editor at Kartika Review, Jennifer Derilo (who I respect/adore), my lyrical essay "The Transfusion of Yukiyo Kanahashi" is now live.  In many ways, it's heartbreaking + raw + honest + powerful.  But my hope is that this essay will keep her memory alive while also providing me (+ the reader) the space to take apart our own preconceptions about our selves while celebrating the erosion of memory + even life.  I make no bold claims about this essay except that it helped me celebrate my sobo's life + the Japanese ancestry in our family while also giving me the cultural + emotional space to finally let go of her + share my imperfect memory of her with the world (reader).  If you wanna buy a black and white hardcopy of issue 15, go here.  If you don't have funds to drop, you can also read my essay on line here.

My Whole Life = Submishmash

In many ways, my life right now mirrors my submishmash status.  Not only have I been waiting to hear from  journals + indie presses, some of them forever, but I'm also waiting to hear from like a gazillion creative writing fellowships + teaching positions in the North Shore + Hyde Park, Chicago + Madison, Wisconsin + Hamilton, New York to Norwich, England.  And honestly, I have no idea what's gonna happen, whether I'm gonna be unemployed or teaching next year, whether I'll have agent or whether I'll still be stumbling through the forest of unpublished novelists.  I have no fucking idea at all.  None.  And so like I've done so many times, I'm gonna wait + hope for good news.  The only thing I have control over right now are the revisions I'm making on The Ninjas of My Greater Self, which an agent requested after reading the first draft.  So there's that, but that's the only kinetic snack food left in the vending machine, man.  And I'm fucking STARVED!

1st Piece Accepted in 2013

After a rigorous (+ very helpful) revision dialogue with Jennifer Derilo, the very sharp, very smart + very detail-oriented Creative Nonfiction editor, I'm proud to announce that my lyrical essay "The Transfusion of Yukiyo Kanahashi" will be published in the upcoming issue of the Kartika Review.  This lyrical essay is part personal narrative, part memory + neuroscience critique, + part metamemoir.  It's a non-linear work about the last week of my sobo's life (my Japanese grandmother's), intertwined with political, cultural, nostalgic + speculative narrative strands.  It's a beautiful + heartbreaking + language-driven + emotionally raw piece, + needs to be shared with the world I think. I honestly can't think of a more culturally important journal to publish an essay about my sobo's life than in the Kartika Review.   I'll keep you posted. 

Good Rejection from the Paris Review

Yo, I realize this rejection is a far cry from an acceptance.  In fact, they're not even in the same orbit.  I know, I know.  I also realize that the axis on this note is crooked, no editorial assistant or editor bothered to sign her/his name or write one incomprehensible but encouraging sentence in pen, instantly humanizing the cold, mechanical rejection process.  I'm painfully aware of all of these details--trust me.  If I paid any more attention to detail, people would stop accusing me of being metrosexual and start accusing me of being The Other Sex, to be wildly essentialistic.  But after getting nothing but impersonal form rejections from the Paris Review for years, it is just a tiny little bump to finally get a good rejection from such an awesome literary journal.  And while I think having a literary agent would make this process so much more damn viable for me, and while I've read fiction in the Paris Review that is as good, occasionally, better + also worse than the story they just rejected, I feel like it's very possible with more hard work, determination + a lot of luck, that I will get a story published in this journal sometime sooner than later.

Anyway, Paris Review, expect a new kickass story in the mail as soon as I'm done with this motherfucking dissertation chapter.  Then it's your turn!  And I'm bringing the big guns this time.  I'm gonna glock my way to publication.

It's A Beautiful Day When People Are Talking About Your Fiction

I really love emails like this.  To be honest, this is the kind of email that I dream about as an emerging fiction writer.  For a split second, I get to remember how good it feels to publish something + have people read my fiction.  Even if it's just a short story in a literary journal.  Here we go:

Hi, Jackson,

Our library hosts a short story discussion group. At our meeting this morning, we discussed “The Blue Men Inside My Head” (as well as Nabokov’s “Symbols  & Signs” so you were in very fine company!) Anyway, had a very lively conversation about your work, especially the ending. Opinion was divided equally about whether Xavier actually got back at the muggers or if that was just inside his head (to go back to the title.)  We were wondering if you had any thoughts about it that you might share.

By the way, our group read T.C. Boyle’s “Tooth and Claw” last year and really enjoyed it as well. I’ve recommended Drop City and Tortilla Curtain to quite a few people over the years.  It is easy to see, from your writing style and subject matter (and humor!) why he must be such a great mentor for you. 

Best wishes for all your writing projects!

L***

L**** C*******
Adult Services Librarian
West Wyandotte Library
1737 N. 82nd St.
Kansas City, KS 66112


Short Story Published in Fiction International

After almost a year of waiting, my conceptual short story "Silence is an Old Warehouse + Love is a Pocketful of Rocks," which is part of my short story collection, Atlas of Tiny Desires, is finally available at Fiction International.  This is probably one of my strangest (coolest) pieces, but basically it's about the male gaze + one-way infatuation.  The story is told from the point of view a male admirer who slowly falls in love with a college student at the Art Institute of Chicago.  Eventually, he learns that his love is part of a mirror of one-way love:  He's in love with someone who ignores him + she's in love with a painting.  I don't wanna give away the ending, but this is definitely one of the more experimental stories I've ever written, organized according to the building blocks of cubism.  Anyway, you can buy your copy at Amazon if you wanna read it for yourself. 

Runner Up for the Poets and Writers California Writers Exchange Award

This morning, my writing friend Christina Lee Zilka congratulated me + some other peeps for being a finalist of the Poets and Writers California Writers Exchange Award.  I applied for this award when I was still living in LA but had totally forgotten about it.  Since then, my wife + I decided to move back to Chicago.  So, maybe in the spirit of the award I don't deserve it cuz I'm not in California anymore.  But regardless, when I took a look at the P+W website, I discovered that I was the fucking runner up!  Out of 600 fiction manuscripts + I was the motherfucking runner up!  My joy, though was quickly taken over by frustration + elation + sadness.  Dude, I was so fucking close.  If the judge (the well-known + well-respected Chris Abani, who's a former PhD alumnus of my program at USC, by the way) had picked my manuscript, I would have received an all-expenses paid trip to NYC to mingle with agents, editors + give a fucking reading in the City.  Winning this award would have helped launch my emerging literary career + put me in contact with some of the players in the industry.  This would have been it, man.  This would have been it. 

Motherfucking runner up.  Don't get me wrong, I'm crazy flattered.  But being so close, I'm depressed too.  I mean, at least being a finalist is like:  Yo, you're really good, but who knows how many people separated you from the winner.  But runner up is one of those titles with all the prestige + none of the glory.  You get the name, but no hardware.  It's like being 4th place in the Olympics.  I've always felt the worst for that dude, for that woman, who came so close to distinction but then fell short for whatever reason.  I'm happy for the winner, Laura Joyce Davis.  Her manuscript was polished, controlled + very well-written.  Personally, I think my story is a little better + a little more cohesive than her novel excerpt, but whatevs.  She deserved it.  Though, of course, I think I did too.  But the truth is, I didn't realize how much I really wanted this thing until I understood how fucking close I was.  You know what I'm saying?  I'm happy about the honor of being a runner up + happy for LJD, but I'm so bummed, man.  This could have been my opening as a hapa fiction writer.  But instead, I keep looking for a way in like I always do.

Chicago Purgatory with Markups

Dude, I feel like I spend more time waiting than writing right now.  Usually, that's not the case at all.  But since all of my writing for the time being is for my dissertation, I have a one-sided relationship with my (artistic) reality where I'm submitting short stories/self-contained chapters to journals, small presses + agents but I'm not writing anything new because of my PhD.  It's kinda odd really.  Because I'm not working on my third novel, or even revising my first two novels, I feel like I'm just waiting around for shit to happen.  Like:

1.  American Short Fiction, who has held on to one of my stories for almost two years.  Now I'm not hating, but think about that.  While the gracious editor there accepted a revision, I still have no idea if my story is going to be accepted.  The truth is, I really should consider sending it to another journal.  The only problem is, I feel like that piece is supposed to be published in ASF.  Call it delusion

2.  Mcsweeney's Press, Coffee House Press, Chiasmus Press, Dalkey Archive Press, Nouvella, the Seattle Review, Milkweed Editions, Les Figues, FC2 + an agent from Sterling, Lord Literistic, all of which I sent novels/Novellas to in the past year

3.   A bunch of literary journals like the Asian American Literary Review, Another Chicago Magazine, The New Yorker, Granta, Paris Review, Crab Orchard Review, the Atlantic, Wisconsin Review, Tin House, Indiana Review, the Believer, N+1, New England Review, Guernica, Kartika Review, Barrelhouse, Portland Review + A Public Space

4.  The University of Chicago for an assistant/associate professor of creative writing (fiction)

5.  Depaul University for a full-time creative writing + world literature professor, for which I'm pretty qualified since my dissertation is both a completed novel + also a shorter critical dissertation on the cultural compartmentalization of Asian American cultural identity + the mediation of Asian American masculinity in orientalist contemporary literature

6.  An agent, any agent, who read my short story in the Antioch Review + decides s/he wants a piece

See, this is why I need to finish my dissertation in like the next month (that's my goal anyway).  When I'm working on my fiction, I don't care all that much when it takes the industry forever to reject my ass/play with my emotions/mindfuck the shit out of me/lead me on/ignore me/procrastinate.  I just keep plugging away at whatever I'm working on, knowing that eventually everything will sort itself out.  In the meantime, I'm making pie out of mud, so what the fuck do I really care?  But right now, all I do when I'm not reading in preparation for my final dissertation chapter, is imagine which dream is gonna come true.  And that shit's just agonizing.

Short Story Published in Last Night on Earth Anthology

My Short Story, "I Didn't Accidentally Karate Kick the Stereo," was recently published in the always-cool, always-slick, always-exciting So Say We All anthology Last Night on Earth, edited by Ryan Bradford + Justin Hudnall.  The premise of this anthology is simple:  The world is going to end tomorrow.  How do you spend your last day on this planet + who do you spend it with?  Considering I wrote this short story explicitly for this anthology, you can imagine my happiness/relief when it was accepted.  Anyway, there are some great stories in here by Natanya Pulley, Amelia Gray, Pat Johnson, Kate Lee + many more I haven't read yet.  So check it out if you're interested.  There's some great shit in here.

Short Story Published in the Antioch Review

While a few talented writers like Michael Chabon simply finish their MFA + then suddenly become famous, for most of us, we have to build up our weight, to use a boxing analogy.  And for that to happen, we need milestones.  I consider the publication of my short story, "The Blue Men inside My Head" in the Fall 2012 issue of the Antioch Review (which is another story in my collection, Atlas of Tiny Desires) to be my new milestone.  I may not change my writing trajectory with this new publication, but then again, maybe I will.  I can only hope that Bob Fogarty, the editor, is right when he says that lots of agents read this journal.  If anyone would know, it would be him.  Maybe, just maybe, this will finally be my time to find an agent + get my novels into the laps of readers.  But if not, I can at least appreciate this moment for what it is + know that I'm creating momentum for my emerging writing career + finding some more readers too.  And yo, when I read the contributor's notes of the other fiction writers (Ed Allen, author of two novels + the winner of the 2002 Flannery O'Connor Award, The Chilean-Argentine novelist, Ariel Dorfman, whose work has been published into 40 languages + Robin Romm, a finalist of the Pen/USA prize + also a NYT Notable Book of the Year + Editor's Choice for her memoir), I realize not only that I'm clearly the fluff here, but just as importantly, that I'm fucking honored to be in such impressive company with these fiction writers.  I dunno man.  To quote one of the best musicals of all time, I feel like something good is coming.  But for now, I'm fucking stoked about this publication.  Things are looking up.  The world's getting smaller, man.

Kicking it with Nami Mun


So I was kicking it Nami Mun the other day.  Actually, let me contextualize that last line because the way I wrote it makes it sound like it was an effortless thing to do, like I just pushed a button on my iPhone + suddenly Nami Mun appeared from the ether with a bowl of cherries and a cup of mint tea.  Actually, we were gonna meet at this restaurant in Lincoln Square called Bakin and Eggs.  Yo, when I saw that name (I'm vegan, remember), I rolled my eyes + was like:  Well, this should be interesting.  But actually I did find something in their online menu before I got there (a rad sandwich of roasted veggies, arugula, hummus + multigrain bread--surprisingly good).  Anyway, so I showed up 10 minutes late cuz that's just how I do.  When I finally got to the restaurant, I marched right in past some smokers, looked around for Nami + then sat down at a table that was completely in my line of vision with the door, my face receiving the door's chi (I'm a little Fen Shuiey when it comes to this shit).  I ordered lemongrass green tea, checked my iPhone religiously + waited.  For like 45 minutes.  I'm sure, actually I know, that I felt like I was on a blind date, but not a romantic blind date, a literary blind date, whose rules are so much less clear to me.  I was a little fidgety, I was obsessed with my phone, I sent Nami several Facebook IM's telling her I'd arrived + giving her my phone number to make things easier, I gave the kind waitress several apologetic smiles, wondered when I should take my invisalign braces out to start drinking my tea.  Finally, Nami checked her FB + realized I'd been there for a while but she'd left + gone back home.  Soon, I got a call from a mysteriously blocked number, picked up + it was Nami, her voice like warm water.  Somehow, I'd walked right past her in front (I didn't know she smoked) because I didn't want to be any later than I already was.  I thought she'd come in + take a look.  She thought I'd forgotten.  Finally, on the phone she said:  --You wanna come + meet me in Andersonville?
--Sure, I said.  Actually, that's better anyway because I live in Rogers Park.
--What?  she asked.  God, why didn't we do that then?
--I dunno.
--I thought you lived in the burbs.  Why did I think that?
--God no.  I'd never live in the suburbs.  Too many soccer moms.
And then we decided I would take the Ashland bus Clark + Irving Park + she'd pick me up there, except for some reason I thought she'd said Ashland + Irving Park (since it was the Ashland bus), so I walked the wrong way on Ashland (my fucking phone kept telling me both directions were north, switching back + forth on my shitty new maps app).  When I finally got on the right bus, I texted Nami to tell her I was on.  Then I asked her if I was supposed to get off at Ashland + Irving Park cuz I couldn't remember.  8 minutes later I'd reached my destination + hadn't heard from her + started to wonder if I'd gotten off at the wrong stop.  Then I hung out at the corner of the above cross-street where there just happened to be an abandoned currency exchange which looked sketchy.  Drivers were giving me weird looks like, why is that dude hanging out there?  Does he know it's closed?  Is he gonna perform a dance routine for us?  I called Nami once or twice as I waited but she didn't pick up because she was driving--good for her.  So now I'm starting to think, fuck, did she get in a car accident?  Did she have an emergency?  Is she an amnesiac + she was like 1/2 there when she forgot why she was driving?  I had no idea what was going on, to be honest.  Then, Nami finally texted me + said she was almost there.  But when she told me I was supposed to meet her at Clark + Irving Park, I was like:  -- Fuck + started walking towards Clark.  But then she texted again + was like, I'll pick you up at Irving Park + Ashland, so then I had to turn around + go back to the abandoned currency exchange.  Finally she picked up + I wondered where 2 hours had gone.

Fast-forward to a little café in Edgewater.  I'll spare you most of the deetz (as my Friend Richard calls details), but a few of the highlights:

1.  I told Nami that she was the only person left on this planet who still has a club for her car.  That's when she explained that it had just recently been jacked.  It's like the perfect car for Asian gangstas to race down dark alleys, I told her.  She agreed.

2.  We talked about Nami's Granta story, "The Anniversary,"which I liked but didn't love.  But, I said, there was something devastating about the way the husband completely cut her out of his life.  And the proof that Nami is a really talented writer is that she was able to make me care for the wife even though she'd cheated on her husband.  Also, I gave her an invisible trophy for ending the story on the El station.  Which leads to the next point:

3.  When I told Nami that I thought she does a great job evoking Chicago in her Granta piece, she said she felt she doesn't consider herself a Chicago writer yet.  She said she has to earn that right, a comment which was repeated in a Chicago Tribune article written about her yesterday.  Then she mentioned "Stu" (Stuart Dybek) + how he's sort of the gold standard (gatekeeper?) of the Chicago writer, which got me thinking about my third novel I'll be working on once I'm done with my dissertation (it's about a bunch of Chicago prodigies) . . .

4.  Nami told me how John Freeman, the editor of Granta, like her earlier version of "The Anniversary," + didn't want a rewrite + how that was revelatory for her because she realized that other people can see merit/value in a piece that she may not even like

5.  She told me about the speech that she'd given for the Carl Sandburg Award in front of hoi polloi (many of them, hardcore Republicans) + how she'd talked about how she would never have become a novelist without government help, the public library, public restrooms, free clinics, public assistance, public universities, + government aid that helped her during tough times.  I was so happy for her + so proud of her.  And even more amazing, Rahm Emmanuel stood up + gave her a standing ovation, which had a domino effect on the audience.

6.  Then LB (my wife) met up with us + Nami gave her her complete + absolute attention, making LB feel comfortable + understood + appreciated.  She also thanked LB for supporting my art + also apologizing for our artistic narcissism.  I laughed hard at that.  That's when my respect/appreciation for Nami expanded exponentially.  I was thinking to myself:  --Lord, I fucking love this woman.  She's amazing.

7.  Finally, before she left, Nami turned to us + said:  --We should go on a double date sometime
--I'm down, I said.
LB smiled.  And that was that.

I may have had to work for this t2 (tea + talk),  but I have to say, it was completely worth it.  Nam Mun's for real, man.  She's spunky + she's cool + she's funny + she's smart + kinda blunt + completely real.  Looking forward to the next time.

Shout Outs from the Universe

Sometimes when I'm being really narcissistic + curious about the great big world, I'll google myself, hoping to find some secret Pushcart nomination I never knew about from years ago or another blog of someone who read one of my short stories (it happens, but never enough), which usually means stumbling on some insolent/ignorant comment from some unpublished, superopinionated anonymous poster who doesn't have the courage to use her/his real name but somehow knows everything about me + the industry.  But sometimes, self-googling reveals whispers of your own existence you really want to believe in + also educates you about rad websites you didn't even know existed before you pushed the search button.  The first is a review of my short story "30 Roofies" in the literary blog The Review Review. This story was originally published in Quarterly West + is part of my collection, Atlas of Tiny Desires.  In case you're not wearing your bifocals, here's a close-up of the paragraph about "30 Roofies":

While I don't find this blurbish story review to be particularly profound, I'm very grateful for the press + also appreciate the author's admiration.  Really, I'll take whatever coverage I can get when it comes to my own writing.  As Tom has told me many times, the only thing we're trying to do as aspiring writers is publish our shit + find our audience.  Boom.

Another blog I discovered after self-googling was Ruelle Electrique that reviews literary journals, books + video games, among other things (three things after my very own heart). Ruelle Electrique reviewed my short story "$67.00 for My Favorite Dictator," (retitled "A Full Cellar" by Howard Junker), which was published in the every-snazzy, always fantastic ZYZZYVA.  "$67.00 for My Favorite Dictator" is another story included in my short story collection, Atlas of Tiny Desires.  Again, if you don't have spidievision, feel free to read the follow close-up below.  Or not:



And lastly, I discovered last month that I was included in an amazing, on-going project at The Rumpus to identify the blog or website of practically every writer of color on the face of the earth, which is no small undertaking, let me tell you that.  While I know that I'm hapa, a lot of people I've met in my life don't give me that honor.  I mean, I still have Asian friends who think they're the only Asian in the room.  It just doesn't sink in for many people because I'm not legibly Japanese-American.  So, in a small, tiny way, I found it both amazing + encouraging to see so many writers of color in this world (+ growing all the time!), + I also found it slightly empowering to get acknowledgment for who I am at such a great literary website like The Rumpus, not just for what I look like to the world.  Here's my name, in between Jabarsi Asiam and Jacqueline Woodson: