My college, Metro State, puts together a quarterly literary magazine, Haute Dish.  Recently I was asked to serve as an editor for new submissions but I haven't heard anything about when this responsibility will kick in.

In the meantime, the deadline for submission is tomorrow so I just now sent along some of my work: three photos from my season of experimentation with the Holga, and a short story, But That's Another Story.  The story was catalyzed by my pet peeve with that same expression--people (ab)use it to make their lives sound more interesting than they are--and I ran with the idea of someone forcing someone else to tell them exactly what this "other story" is, taking it to outrageous lengths.  Actually, I'm hoping to extend it into a chapbook, especially since the story itself has been positively received by my friends and classmates.

I had a brief concern with multiple submissions, but in reality I'm not exactly showering the world of publications with my stories so I think it's okay if I send this one along to my college's literary magazine.  I think I'm not shooting myself in the foot with this move.

I'm about to wrap up my Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing.

I went into the Army for college money.  Between the GI Bill and College Fund, the Army was providing the most money for recruits (circa 1988) to continue on with their education, the most out of all the Armed Forces.  I spent 19 months in Fort Ord right before it closed down and was sold back to the state, two of which saw me fighting in Panama, and then one year in South Korea.

My family moved to MN while I was in training so I commuted to a Community College from my mom's new home and got my AA, before trekking up to St. Cloud where I drifted through majors and severe depression.  I moved to Minneapolis in '96 and swam through various temp jobs, enjoying the varied experiences, until Bush usurped office and the job market dried up.

After a pastiche season of dating I found my wife, who is herself quite educated and supported me returning to school.  I'm attending Metropolitan State University, which has what many people consider to be the most robust writing program they've ever seen, anywhere.  Seventeen years after the inception of my academic journey, I'm finally securing my BA, and believe me when I say it's been a long, hard grudge match.

I registered for Writers As Readers and conferred with a favorite professor to arrange an Independent Study course, Advanced Creative Writing, which will be my Capstone.  In discussing potential projects for development I decided to continue with my novel.  For Advanced Writing over the summer I wrote the first chapter of a low fantasy novel I've had in the back of my head for years; with this SDIS class I will write the second and third chapters, and I hope this will create momentum enough to continue with the book.

But a novel!  That seems arrogant of me.  In the bibliography I've arbitrarily formed in my mind, I feel like I'm supposed to work on journalistic articles first, maybe come columns and op-ed pieces, then amass a solid short story resume.  After that it will be acceptable for me to plot a novel.  I have that hierarchy in my head even though I know that's not how other people have done it.

Like I said, I hope the class instills me with the momentum I need to continue this project.  I've done some great writing due to these classes, but I've been deplorable at writing outside of these classes (blogs don't count).  If I could take classes ad infinitum, sure, I could necessarily produce enough material to paper my living room and carpet-bomb agents and publishers.

But if that's harder for me to do, entirely of my own volition, does that mean I'm not a writer?  I asked Neil Gaiman how to get over writer's block.  "Become a plumber," he said, "or a carpenter or a mechanic.  Take up any of these trades, because writers write."  I love writing, it's what I'm best at (better than anything else I do, not best in the world of writers), but I don't have that itchy-fingered compulsion to write all the time.  I don't feel suffocated if a day has gone by without my having written something.  I don't see in myself the passion and drive I've seen in others, all my life.

Does that mean I should  be doing something else?

So I'm going through potential publishers, looking at genres, trying to decide what to write.  I'm feeling vague and formless so I'm making the effort to decide and act.  I pick out a genre, I start the rudiments of a plot, and then I decide to check again with who might receive this.

Only to discover at least three titles on my list have folded: Dark Realms' final issue was Fall 2008.  All Possible Worlds actually closed their curtains over a year ago--I must've found their entry here before their listing was deleted.  And I have never been able to find Twisted Shift online, their URL garners an error message.  Apparently one Dorothy Ellis of Texas purchased the domain name in 2005 and it expires next year, but I've been looking for her site for a few months and it fails to exist.

Now I'm going down the list of magazines and checking to see who's actually still in business.  I'm not exactly starting to sweat, there are plenty of options out there, I'm sure.  But when one is being lazy and looking for excuses, this is a convenient obstacle.

I'm at the end of a three-month test period to see how seriously I can take a career in writing.

Result: not very.

I sent out a few queries, but not nearly enough.  I followed up on most of them and have received no word from anyone.  I sent out a few job applications, for that matter, for writing and editing positions and have likewise been blown off.  So much for Craigslist, of course.

I'm sitting in the back of my favorite local coffee shop for writing, and I've written a dozen blog entries in a dozen Web sites--mainly about my relief over the election and my fury in realizing an acquaintance made a joke of her ballot, frittering away her electoral privilege, and about my surprise at my own vehemence over this--and I intend to work on a short story and the second chapter of my  novel.  Yes, I'm actually returning to my novel; I'm as surprised as anyone.

So the solution will be for me to take up a part-time job and pursue writing while making a nominal income elsewhere.  I have to ask myself, what was I afraid of in the context of a writing career?

1. I was afraid an editor would respond and chew me out for being a talentless hack.
2. I was afraid too much would be expected of me and my failure to fulfill these expectations would be epic.
3. ...No, I guess that's about it.  Two major fears.

I know that thousands of self-help books have been written that deal with these insecurities, in writing as well as in anything else.  The fear of being exposed as a fraud and the fear of letting others down applies all across the board; it is not a plague exclusive to authorship.  And I even have my own responses to each of these concerns:

1. I know I'm skilled, and my support network has been nothing but encouraging.  Friends and college teachers alike have been praiseful and encouraging.  I know I have talent.
2. I'm a far cry from being placed in anything like a crucial position.  I'm a freelance writer at the beginning of my career: no one's going to snatch me off the street and place me in a high-level governmental position where the fate of a nation relies upon my grasp of the restrictive clause.
3. Even if I did have expectations heaped upon me, I have almost always exceeded them.  My military career is exemplary, and writing an article can't compare to being shot at.
   

Despite this, I've been reluctant to freely strew query letters over the publication landscape.  I know other writers can relate to this trepidation, and I know the only remedy is to get off my ass and just do it.  I know all the relevant Machiavellian, deterministic platitudes.  I even believe that if I were to sit next to myself and listen to me mewl and pule like this, I would lash out with physical violence.  I don't think I could tolerate listening to a talented writer hold himself back from even trying to get published at even a basement press or community newsletter.

So... now what?  Knowing all this, what stays my hand?  Assured of the strong wings on my back and the hill of mattresses below me, what prevents me from making this leap?

Yup, productivity abounds.  Yesterday I got some more writing done and submitted a query: I interviewed the host of a local drunken spelling bee.  I had a blast at the event and hit the host up for a quick talk, I think it's newsworthy.  I hope to hear from this magazine soon, though I haven't in the past.

Today I got my half hour of yoga done, talked some more with our potential car buyer, and drove the Prius out to the gas station to get it vacuumed.  The buyer's going to check it out tonight, and I'll probably take it to his preferred mechanic tomorrow or Sat. morning, and... if all goes well, we'll have an amount of money to throw into savings and the security that comes with it.

A friend's birthday is coming up, and historically I've been very poor at remembering or acknowledging the birthdays of friends.  I know that's something I need to work on.  Everyone likes their birthday remembered--if not for the fact that they're getting older, then just for the reassurance that they're surrounded by people who give a rat's ass about them.  I'm trying to tighten up my online address books, fill them out with complete name, address, and phone information, and now would be a good time to check everyone's birthdays, too.

Finally, every morning during my blogging routine, Bella hops up into my lap and extracts some cuddle time, about 10-15 minutes.  I don't mind this at all, but I don't get much writing done.