Microcosm of Hurt

Now that I got my rejection letter today from the excellent liberal arts college Hamilton College, I can finally admit that I applied there in the first place for a tenure track position teaching 20th Century American Fiction + (Ethnic) Literature, specializing in Asian American literature.  There's this weird rule when applying to academic jobs (I think it applies equally to CW jobs too, but I have no proof) that you never tell other people where you're applying for academic jobs.  For one thing, you, your other academic and creative writing friends, a random acquaintance you met at that Upper West Side party two years ago or in a bookstore in Burlington or someone in your cohort, any of those peeps, may have applied to the same job.  In fact, of course they did because all of you want to avoid the ASC (adjunct sweatshop complex).  That means everyone is your competition until you either get the job or the rejection letter.

A second, more obviously strategic reason not to tell people where you applied for an academic job is because there's always a chance---even in the digital information flow---that they don't know about that specific job + if you tell them, you're just increasing the competition for yourself (because most of your academic + creative writing friends are at least as brilliant and talented as you are), which is the last thing you want to do.

On no level do you want your friends, colleagues or talented classmates from your cohort to fail.  You just want to succeed really badly + not advertising academic jobs to other people places the burden of researching academic jobs + multitasking dissertations and job searches on other people, where it belongs.  Still, it feels kinda shady sometimes because normally, I'd tell everyone everything (as I pretty much do on this website) because I want all my friends to be enormously successful because they're good people.

Anyway, the rejection letter I got today addressed to "Dear Candidate," which is never a good sign, said that Hamilton College received 350 applications for this one single position!  Let that sink in for a second.  350 applications.  That's fucking insane.  But from what I'm gathering from reading articles in the Chronicle, among other places, is that as universities hire less + less tenure track faculty (employing more adjuncts to cut costs now that universities are being run more like corporations), the competition for the few tenure track positions that pop up has become unwieldy, overwhelming + even bloodthirsty.

Obviously I don't know shit about what's gonna happen for me in the near future.  All I know is that I've applied to 36 academic jobs + fellowships so far in 14 different states (both tenure track + visiting assistant professorships), which does not include all the query emails I sent to every single CW department at every single Chicago university two years ago. I still have 3 more fellowships to apply to in addition to every new CW academic I can find between now + May of 2014.  Of those 36 jobs I've applied to so far, I'm still waiting to hear from 26 of them.  I'm also waiting to hear back from 3 literary agents + 4 indie presses reading my first two novels in addition to something like 75 literary journals.

In other words, I don't have a damn clue what's gonna happen with my academic or literary career, but barring some statistical anomaly, the exit polls show that this is gonna be a tight race, ladies + gentlemen.  I'm an eternal optimist.  I believe that something amazing can happen in a blink of an eye.  But it's good I guess that I ground my expectations on data + fully understand how brutal this fight is gonna be.  Hamilton's rejection might be a microcosm of hurt, so I may need to build my weight up.

Article about the Irrationality of Love Published in the Good Men Project

Two of my fave things to write about (in fiction + nonfiction) are love + the limitations of reasoning.  In this article, you get both.  Read this piece + you'll understand the strange visual juxtaposition of phallic rockets + a bunch of hearts.

Good Rejection from Brick Magazine

While this is a gracious + thoughtful rejection letter, strangely enough, this is the second time BRICK magazine has told me my essay was both engaging but also "too personal." I'm trying to imagine an essay that's not personal, + I'm having a hard time understanding how someone writes nonfiction without being extremely personal (unless it's journalism).  Either way, I really appreciate the kind words but I don't understand that critique, at least not for this genre.

Dear Jackson,

Thank you for submitting " . . . " to Brick. Although your piece is very engaging, I regret that we must pass on it as it is a bit too personal to be of interest to our more general readership. We are a casual literary journal, and we generally publish pieces on art and the writing life. 


We do wish you all the best with your writing.
Sincerely,
 
A*** G*******-R**

Article about the Poverty of Male Affection Published in the Good Men Project

As some of you might know, after I started my dissertation, I became really invested in the (de)construction, mediation + question of contemporary masculinity, in part because I think we live in a fascinating time in history where gender roles are necessarily collapsing (+ where the push-back becomes even more violent).  Anyway, this time I wrote a short piece in the Good Men Project about the lack of affection between (+ for) straight men, how it starts with our old school fathers, continues with our classmates + male friends + continues until we either confront the void inside us or until we're fortunate enough to surround ourselves with people who are loving, affectionate, open + communicative with us.  If you have a second, you can check it out here.

Memoir about Being a Secret Hapa + Nerd Masculinity Republished in Discover Nikkei

My memoir/essay, "American Otaku" about the life of a secret Asian American + nerd masculinity that was originally published in the GMP was recently republished at Discover Nikkei, a site that explores transnational hapa identity + interconnection between cultures, celebrates community + also provides a forum for hapa + nikkeijin history to be retold + therefore, reremembered.  If you have a second + you missed it the first time around, you can check out my piece here.

Forcing the Paris Review to Have a Sense of Humor

While I admire the Paris Review quite a lot, I've always found the journal a bit sober, for lack of a better word.  And since I'm a punk, a documented brat + I like fucking with people (in the sweetest way possible, man, not in a douchey way), I decided to give them a much cooler SASE so when they rejected me--so fucking predictable!--I could at least laugh at my own envelope + maybe force the intern to shake his head disapprovingly.  This envelope also makes me laugh because I can picture the fiction reader (probably some NYU/Columbia MFA student + Paris Review intern) shaking his head at my caption, thinking how lame it is.  We all know the Paris Review would never send an author such a silly rejection envelope, which makes it even funnier for me that they stuck a (lame) form rejection inside this cute little masterpiece.  To give you some historical context, this isn't the first time I've pulled off shit like this.  Back when college students used to send in FAFSA postcards, I'd write embarrassingly personal/dirty messages to myself, which the Department of Education would have to send back to me to confirm they'd received my completed application + I would laugh my ass off imagining a DC bureaucrat shaking his head at me.  Sometimes I do the same shit when I enter a short story contest that asks for a stamped, confirmation postcard.  I dunno, that's just how I roll I guess, forcing sober bureaucrats + iconic literary journals to be way sweeter (cuter) than they clearly wanna be.

Lyrical Essay about Love Republished in Australia

Sometimes when you write shit down, you have no idea what's gonna be big when other people read it.  Truthfully, I don't pretend I have a damn clue what excites readers--that's why I try to write things that excite me + hope readers feel the same.  For those of you who haven't read it yet, I published a lyrical essay a little more than a week ago in the Good Men Project entitled "How to Stay in Love." I wrote this piece about LB partially because I'm still crazy in love 6 years after we started dating, and partially because the older I get, the more I realize how uniquely awesome our relationship is (+ I should know, I'd had tons of shitty relationships in my life, so I've got a point of reference).  Anyway, Kristin Shorten, an Australian journalist from News emailed me last Monday + asked if they could republish my essay on one of Australia's top news websites.  And I was like:  fuck yeah!  So here's an abridged republication of my essay, "How to Stay in Love" in the lifestyle section of News.com in Australia, along with a few pics of LB + me in Socal + Buenos Aires for your viewing pleasure.  I've also included, just for the hell of it, a picture of the front page, just to give you some context of where my essay fits within the bigger picture of today's news cycle on this website + why it got republished in journals + news engines like The Herald Sun, Courier MailNews Whip + Optus Zoo, among others.  My essay was even republished on a German website called Ad Hoc News with a picture of Michael Jackson!

Two Literary Agents Ask for Partial of Ninjas

After getting Ayesha Pande's email today + a republication request from a major Australian news outlet for an essay I wrote earlier for the Good Men Project, I have to say, this has been a good Monday.  Actually, in the past two weeks, two literary agents have asked for partials of my second novel, The Ninjas of My Greater Self (Kate McKean at Howard Morhaim Literary Agency and today, Ayesha Pande at Ayesha Pande Literary). And as long as there are agents reading my novel, there's (a tiny bit of) hope in my world.  Stay tuned for updates (+ possible mania/heartache).

Lyrical Essay about Staying in Love Published at the Good Men Project

There are a lot of things I'm not qualified to write about (of course, this has never stopped writers before).  But one of the things I feel I'm eminently qualified to do is write about love.  I've been in love more than once.  I've been in too many relationships to count.  Some of them have been horrendous slogs, others ephemeral + dramatic flare-ups, + quite a few fell somewhere in between.  Either way, one thing I'm good at is connected to one thing I believe in wholeheartedly, which is the capacity for humans to love + the redemptive place that love can play in our culture.  My life would have no value without it.  My best writing comes from a place of love (of characters, places, experiences, languages, ideas, etc., etc.).  My best relationships are overflowing with that stuff too.  Anyway, this time I wrote a lyrical essay about my relationship with LB, which the Good Men Project was happy to publish because they love it when men talk about love.  If you have time, I hope you'll read it + tell me what you think about my piece, "How to Stay in Love."

Article about Marriage + Gangster Love Published at the Good Men Project

While I acknowledge that marriage is definitely not right for everyone (fuck, it wasn't even right for me until three years ago when I had a major epiphany while driving shotgun with my friend Lisa through Koreatown), + while I know that even great marriages don't always last, nonetheless, I wanted to write a piece in the Good Men Project that refuted the cultural myth of matrimonial castration for husbands + suggest that marriage with the right person could be a joint Galatea project, a place to actually evolve + grow.  Sometimes, it might even be the most gangster thing of all.  Anyway, here's my piece about the Evolved Gangster in Love.  It's obviously about marriage, but it's also about how marriage can upgrade your own masculinity, the way it can make you stronger, more flexible, more in tune with yourself, the way it can make your more vulnerable, more authentic + more compassionate too.  Check it out when you get a chance.  And since I've been talking about love, marriage + being totally gangster, it's only fair I suppose to include a shot of me + LB to give you some context for my piece.  In the foto, we're in a bar called Millón in Buenos Aires.  I'm pretty sure I'd just cracked a joke about something or made fun of LB in a sweet sorta way.  But I think it's safe to say we're kinda fond of each other.  Pictures don't lie. 

Good Rejection from Esquire

Dear Jackson Bliss:
 

Thank you for sending us " ---". We really enjoyed this piece, but we didn't feel it was right for Esquire at this time.
 

We hope that you will continue to send us your work. When and if you do, please keep the following in mind:
 

*We want stories that feel especially timely and urgent and speak to current events and the state of the world around us.
* We cannot consider stories longer than 5,000 words.

* We ask that you use 12-point font, double-spaced. Verdana or Times New Roman preferred. Be sure your name, contact information, story title, and word count are at the top of your document and please remember to number your pages

 

Sincerely,
 

The Editors of Esquire
2013-08-16 12:27:01 (GMT -4:00)

Moving Forward, Always Forward

Today I decided I'm not waiting any longer for destiny to call.  I've waited long enough, been a patient + understanding writer, taken my disappointments with enough grace, licked my wounds + played the patience game as best as I know how.  I think most people would have folded  by now, found a different vocation, taken out life insurance.  To be honest, I don't begrudge them at all, I understand where they're coming from + why they stop setting themselves up for heartbreak.  But writing is the one thing I'm awesome at + I won't give up.  I just don't know how.  This is why I can't wait any longer for journals + literary agents to get back to me, I've already given them enough of my time.  I've paid my dues.  Now, I'm moving on.  Something in the future will work out.  As for the past, I'm not convinced that's where my future is anyway (excuse the temporal paradox).

After waiting for a small eternity, deluding myself into thinking that patience was akin to loyalty, I've decided I'm gonna send out a flurry of new query letters + fiction manuscripts this week.  I think the best response is to keep moving forward + not look back, because we all know what happened to Eurydice.  I'm looking at Gary Shteyngart's + Patricia Engel's agents, I'm looking at the Virginia Quarterly Review again, at The Paris Review, the Missouri Review + the New Yorker again, I'm considering every option now.  I think I've waited like a champ, stuck to the positive (irrational), hoped for the best.  But not anymore.  It's time for my next move, wherever that takes me.  Ultimately, I want what every aspiring literary fiction writer wants: artistic materiality.  Or said another way, I wanna see my writing in print.  Besides that, I guess I want readers, passionate readers, I want snarly critics trying to outstylize my own novels with blistering manqué book reviews, I want online interviews, a flirty movie option that never comes to be, I want a date on Fresh Air, a little name recognition in an indie bookstore + some annoying fan letters written by readers obsessed with my characters.  A book tour would be nice too, maybe a free lunch now + then, a master class with a few undergrads.  But for now, I'm cool with just seeing my writing in print.  That's the only thing I actually need.  That's my future.  That's the uncanny dream.  So now I'll dream it as hard as I can + not look back in anger.

My 2013 Ranking of Literary Journals

Ranking literary journals is a subjective bizz.  To read my spiel about what I see as the unavoidable filter bias of journal awards + the inherent subjectivity of literary journal rankings, please see last year's entry about this topic.  No need to repeat old opinions.

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

1.  These rankings are totally subjective but at least I can admit it.  I tend to focus my own submissions on journals I'm especially enamored with, meaning I tend to read stories in those journals more, which means I'm much more aware of how good they are. This is my roundabout way of saying there's probably lots of great shit I'm not reading but I have a life + I have my own stylistic, conceptual + editorial biases (as we all do) . . .
2.  My only criteria are quality, voice, audacity + originality.
3.  These aren't 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

2013 Haphazard Literary Journal Ranking

Slate (okay, just for poetry, but whatevs)


2nd Story Accepted in 2013

I was kicking it with LB last night, watching The L Word, eating snacks + drinking ocha when I saw this email on my iPhone.  Then, I got insanely happy.  One of my short stories is gonna be published in Tin House for the Flash Friday set at the Open Bar.  I can't even begin to tell you how stoked I am about this.  Can I get a woot woot?  Here's the email:

Dear Jackson,

I just finished reading "Cabrón" and would love to run it on the morning of September 26th on The Open Bar.  Does this sound good?  Can I gift you a subscription to the magazine or a book from our catalog?  

Best,

M****

M**** C******
Associate Editor
Tin House Books
2617 NW Thurman St.
Portland, OR 97210
www.tinhouse.com

Why the New Yorker Sometimes Feels like the Old Yorker

I know it's not the smartest thing in the world to criticize one of the glossies, especially when said glossy is iconic in the literary fiction community + happens to be one in which you're hoping to publish a self-contained novel chapter in the distant future from your awesome second novel.  At the same time, being a Chicagoan with a shitload of New York friends, I know for a fact that some New Yorkers actually look down upon the rest of the world for not being New Yorkers.  I'll never forget the time the coworker of an ex-girlfriend of mine once told me he "forgave" me for not being from New York, a comment that was supposed to be smug + biting in just the right way, but which actually made me want to beat his ass with a monkey wrench until he was spitting out teeth (+ I'm a Buddhist + a pacifist, mind you).

Anyway, I bring up a few details from my experience with New York for several reasons.  One, New York is a city I love very much (proven by the fact that my first novel BLANK takes place in nyc).  Two, sometimes, New Yorkers think everyone else is less smart, less urbane, less hip + less international than they are (+ of course, they'd only be partially right).

Anyway, I'd like to believe that in some strange, mysterious way, this ethnocentric ethos of New York also pervades the New York literary establishment, and why shouldn't it?  New York is still the undisputed mecca of fiction writers.  The creative writing faculty at NYU could fill an entire bookstore.  Some of that cachet is absolutely merited.  And some of the best stories I've ever read have been in The New Yorker.  Some (but not all) were written by Bolaño too.  And then there's Junot Diaz, Jennifer Egan + many other writers I really admire.  At the same time, I'm trying--desperately--to understand why it is that such a prestigious literary magazine like The New Yorker feels it doesn't have to respond to unsolicited manuscripts.  I realize some people are getting form rejections, which sucks, but at least it's something definitive.  That crappy form rejection leaves absolutely no doubt that you're not getting to second base.  But I'm not even one of those people.  I've sent six fiction manuscripts to The New Yorker since 2010 + I only received one response (albeit, a good one).  That's a response average of 16.6% (not an acceptance rate mind you, which is probably .0001000).  Or said another way, that means TNY hasn't deigned to respond to 83.3% of my submissions in the past 3.5 years, which frankly, is ridiculous.

I realize almost no unagented fiction writers almost ever pass that sacred threshold into the kingdom of glossy self-edification.  I realize that if I snag this one agent in particular who asked for a rewrite of my 2nd novel (s/he will remain nameless until I hear from her/him), the first thing I'm gonna want them to do is send one of my novel chapters to the TNY because I'll have a completely different set of rules + privileges available to me that virtually all unagented fiction writers don't have.  But that said, I'd like to know why right now The New Yorker is so bad simply responding to fiction manuscripts.  I won't even get into how prohibitively difficult it is actually getting one of your stories accepted by the this magazine.  I'll leave that for another day . . .

Dr. Now What?

So, a lot has happened in 2013.  I finished Dishonored . . .
I played the shit out of Borderlands 2 (including all 4 expansion packs--what a dork!).  Personally, I like the Siren.
I published a lyrical essay in the Kartika Review about the last days of my Japanese obāsan's life + her battle with dementia.
I finally received my contributor's copies of my short story that was published in Fiction International
I defeated the final boss in Final Fantasy XIII-2, which was fucking hard, man!
For the first time in my adult life, one of my two fave college football teams was ranked #1 in graduation rates + #1 in the BCS at the end of the regular season (before getting their ass kicked by Alabama).  The national championship game may not have been pretty, but I'm still crazy proud of ND for going 12-0 against four ranked teams.  I think this augurs well for Brian Kelly + Irish fans.
I saw the Chagall mural that literally changed my life as a Chicago teenager (+ also heard the Smiths playing in my head)
I experienced a real Winter for the first time in four fucking years.  Here's Zoe captivated (horrified) by Chicago's brutal wind chill
I flew back to LA for my thesis defense, hung out with some great friends + walked around Venice Beach (pictured)
I passed my thesis defense with flying colors (or so my committee chair said)
I turned 39, which really scared the fuck out of me, but at least both numbers are divisible by 3 (my fave number, dude)

I  finished my dissertation + became a doctor!






I finished playing Bioshock Infinite on both medium + hard levels (not 1999-I kept running out of $$$).  And maybe, just maybe, I had a small crush on  Elizabeth.  I also fucking loved the quantum mechanics narrative at the end, which was brilliant.

So yes, by all means, I've had a few seminal moments in my life since the beginning of 2013, some of them huge, others simply fun + self-defining.  But the problem with getting your PhD (if getting a PhD can be a problem) is that you go from have a clear-cut path for 4-6 years (4 in my case) with guaranteed funding, amazing conversations in + outside seminar + a sense of purpose, you get to vaporize a shitload of life-changing novels (which you can't really appreciate because you're reading them too fast), evolve intellectually, work with some of the best fiction writers + scholars in the whole damn world, live in a cool (+ totally unsustainable) city like LA + exist in a perfectly linear trajectory for all of grad school.

But now what?  I just went from one of the most pivotal moments in life ("I'm so awesome!") to being unemployed ("I'm so sad!).  I went from knowing exactly what I wanted to do with my life to having no idea what I'm doing, from having enough cash to buy so many books + posthipster clothes my heart could almost burst, to being gradually poorer, from hoping for the best situation with academic jobs to considering the crappiest comp jobs you could imagine at the lowliest community colleges, just to get by.  It's something you don't wanna think about while you're pounding away on your dissertation because you can't even think straight when you have a soft deadline for your thesis defense + a hard deadline for submitting your dissertation to the Graduate School for formatting.  But once you're done with all that, you look around + you go:  fuck, now what do I do?

Don't get me wrong.  I'm an eternal optimist.  I believe in people.  I believe in myself.  I believe that good things will happen.  I could get a literary agent next week.  My second novel could be accepted for publication by an indie publisher next month.  My collection of short stories could be accepted for publication sometime in Autumn.  I could get an email for an interview for one of the many academic jobs I applied to, like tomorrow.   But the thing is, my life as an aspiring literary fiction writer + professor-to-be is one big contingency plan, a perpetual lesson in professional + existential uncertainty.  Things can work out.  I believe things will work out.  But right now, I have to say it kinda blows.