The Heroes We Choose

I know it's extremely old news (Almost as long ago as the last time I posted.  Guess I'm restarting the blog.), but I just ran across this online, and I couldn't not share. 

This is Fay:

She was rescued from a dog-fighting ring.  She died of complications from facial reconstruction sugery just days after Michael Vick was awarded (post-convinction) the Ed Block Courage Award by his teammates.  Here's what Vick had to say about receiving the award and his experiences leading up to the honor:

I've had to overcome a lot, more than probably one single individual can bear. Take a look at what I've been through. You ask certain people to walk in my shoes, they probably couldn't do it -- probably 95 percent of the people in this world. Because nobody had to endure what I've been through.

What a hero.  My heart bleeds for him.

HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE FACEBOOK

In addition to the invaluable public service I provide my readers with through my harping rants, I’m thinking I can add even more helpful content. Since many of the half-dozen of you reading this (Boy, I’ve got a following now! Look out world.) are writers, I’m thinking of also using the blog as a forum to discuss my and other’s experiences with different writing markets, interesting contests, anthologies, and other calls for manuscripts, links to useful websites like Duotrope's (if you don’t know this one, you’re living in the dark ages), etc. Writerly stuff. Maybe one of these days I’ll even get a links list together, but let’s not get too ambitious just yet. And of course you won’t want to miss any of this, so don’t forget to subscribe to Shouts From the Madhouse. You wouldn’t want to miss one scintillating day in the life of me, would you? I thought not.

I’ve figured out how to send this feed to my Facebook (yeah, yeah) page. I’m like a bride in an arranged marriage with this Facebook thing. I was forced into it, there’s no getting out now, so I just have to learn to love it and hope it doesn’t slap me around too much.

And now your long awaited and much beloved Irish curse of the day:

MAY YOUR DREAMS AND REFLECTIONS BE VILE AND BAD

Wait a minute, I think my enemies have been reading my book!

ABOUT-FACE(BOOK)

Hey there friends and frienemies alike. Today’s FTS award goes to Facebook. That’s right, I said it. And if you’ve seen my Facebook page, you already know my feelings. Hey, what’s the beef with FB, Jess? you ask. Well, I’ll tell you. For one, I don’t like that you can’t personalize your page. It’s boring. And now that I’ve taken the time to personalize my MySpace page, everyone is migrating to FB. Now I have to deal with keeping up two pages. I am only one woman! (Though my psychiatrist might say different.) And I was never any good at maintaining the one page. Is that all? you query. No. I also hate that it broadcasts my every move to all two (ok, I have a few more than that) of my friends. Jessica Hoard just added a picture. Jessica Hoard just wrote on so-and-so’s wall. Jessica Hoard just scratched her butt. It’s creepy, it’s invasive, it’s a bit like being stalked. But now that I’m being forced to spend some time getting to know FB, at least I’ve discovered how to limit that somewhat. And another thing, instead of using normal language like “send a message” or “post a comment” they have to be all cutesy with stuff like writing on super walls and poking, and people are always wanting you to take personality tests and crap. It’s just all very junior high. Of course, the whole idea of social networking is junior high, what with all the friend counting and belonging to groups and networks and whatnot. Considering that Facebook has now eclipsed MySpace, I can’t really say “FTS” to FB, though it’s still not my BFF. Because everyone is now at FB, I have to suck it up and go too. I’m trying not to show my advancing age with my crabby, stubborn, change-hating, Luddite ways and utter uncoolness. So I guess I’m making an about-face about Facebook.

Today’s un-FTS, or non-FTS, or whatever, goes to the guy at the car inspection place who passed me yesterday even though my right blinker wasn’t working. Thanks, dude! You rock! Actually, I don’t know if that’s really a fail-worthy violation.

And today’s Irish curse:

MAY WARTS AND CHAPPED HANDS ALWAYS BE WITH YOU

See you on Facebook.

FTS

I got an email from my friend Chris today who has a deep appreciation for what he calls my “Fuck that shit” attitude, encouraging me to keep writing despite sometime overwhelming feelings of “what’s the point of it all anymore?” I had talked to him before about trying to figure out what this blog is or should be “about”. I’m still figuring it out, but I think it works best as a mish mash. I told him I ought to write a blog called “Fuck That Shit” in which I bitch (my expertise) about, well, whatever annoys or pisses me off. It could become my catch phrase, my “Are you having a laugh?” It would sweep the nation. It would be on t-shirts and bumper stickers and they could make a doll of me that, when you squeeze it, says “Fuck that shit.” Well, I don’t know about all that, but I do think that I will be incorporating FTS as a regular feature of the blog. I had thought I would try to keep the blog somewhat respectable so that it might be useful in the search for freelance work, but you know what I have to say to that? That’s right, fuck that shit. (Don’t worry you’ll catch on.) So Ducky, this FTS is for you. Thanks.

WHEN A DOOR CLOSES...

A window opens, or something corny like that. You may notice that my recent post about the drabble (story of exactly 100 words for those of you not in the know) I wrote which was rejected for publication is no longer here. Well I just received an email about a different piece I submitted to a different journal. No, it wasn't accepted either. It was rejected. But they did read my blog, and they did happen to like the drabble (I'm not explaining it to you again), and they would like to publish it in their premiere issue due out in January. So keep your eyes peeled for Pear Noir! And for those of you who write, submissions are open until Oct. 31. Let's make it a family affair. Or a friend affair. You know what I mean.

And the Irish curse for today is:

MAY YOU SUFFER AN UNQUENCHABLE THIRST

Don't give up the good fight!

(WITH BACK OF HAND PRESSED TO FOREHEAD) I'M SO MISUNDERSTOOD (SIGH)

So I just got rejected (again) from another lit mag. Ah, the writer’s life. I really thought I was in. That’ll teach me to be cocky. This particular mag publishes drabble (stories of exactly 100 words), and I wrote something I thought was pretty good, and I submitted it. This is the story:

UPON WAKING, ANOTHER KIND OF SLEEP
She had never touched a dead thing before. No, that wasn’t true. She had dissected things in high school science class, hadn’t she? An earthworm, a frog, a fetal pig, all with the sickening sour smell of formaldehyde. And even then she had made her lab partner do most of the work. But never anything she had known as alive. She wasn’t prepared for the hardness of it, the absolute stillness. Her husband’s
arm was warm and yielding in comparison as she touched it to wake him.
“Hmm,” he managed, his eyes remaining closed.
“It’s over,” she murmured. “He’s gone.”

So the editor wrote back:

“I have to be honest, I don't know who died. And if I am confused, I know that others will be too. You might consider using less of your 100 words talking about dead stuff she has touched in the past, and more to show really what's going on, so the reader feels more engaged in the plot.”

Ok. So the editor didn’t like the ambiguous ending. Fine. It’s a matter of taste. Lots of people don’t like ambiguous endings. I can accept that. What bothers me is that the editor thought that it was unintentional. I thought it was quite obvious that it was intentional. I mean, I’d have to be a REALLY bad writer to have meant that story to be totally clear (as in, who the “he” was), but then, I forget just how bad some of the writing is that comes across an editors desk.

I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t work. I did go back and forth with myself about whether to leave the ending that ambiguous or to reveal who had died. But, personally, I like ambiguous endings, so I wrote it the way I did. Am I wrong? Give me your opinion. Because, I do like it, and actually, I had an idea about writing a drabble chapbook. Hmm? What do you think? About the chapbook and the story itself.

And don't worry, in my utter despair I haven't forgotten...

Your Irish curse of the day:

MAY YOU HAVE NEITHER MEAT NOR SOUP

Love to you.

AND ANOTHER THING...

I was so distraught over my missed opportunities that I forgot the most important thing of all. That's right, the Irish curse of the day! (yea)

MAY YOUR MISFORTUNES BE FOOD FOR GOSSIP AT THE FORGE

And now that I've crossed Sarah!, I'm sure to have many misfortunes.