So, some good news. In the last week I've sold two short stories. It feels good to finally get this affirmation after making the decision earlier this year to become a full-time writer. I signed the first of the contracts today. It is a pittance, but it is something. For the last 6 months I feel like I've been taking a cram-course on writing fiction in order to get up to speed in core competencies of story construction. I write constantly, and participate in three critique groups to help others and get multiple stories critiqued in order to make them stronger.

One of the stories was submitted to a magazine that had a special call for fictional advertisements. It just so happened that I had written a fictional Craigslist ad on a whim one day. I quickly submitted it, and the story was accepted within a week--unheard of in the publishing world. It was the only publisher I submitted this story to.

The other story came to me just as I turned off the light next to my bed so I could go to sleep. Within a few seconds and idea popped into my head. I sat up, turned the light back on, grabbed my computer, and vomited out the first rough draft of a story about two best friends who get into a fight over bad news.

My current focus is to get a collection of short stories out on the market by the end of January, 2014. I feel like I'm moving at a snail's pace toward that goal, but other writers have told me that I am making fast progress. All of the stories will be new.

Writing has always been easy for me, it is good writing that is difficult. I don't think I'm alone there. Rough drafts come out fast, but rewrites and self-editing are a pain. I can easily write a rough draft of a short story in a day, but it might take 3 or 4 weeks to get it to where I am proud of the work. Sometimes I'm still not happy with it, so it goes into my own personal slush-pile. I love the term slush-pile. It aptly describes work that is almost refuse, the just-not-quite-good-enough works all writers must confront.

I have been debating whether or not to remain anonymous on this blog. Perhaps nobody cares. Iwill need to let the world know when my book is ready. If someone wants to know how to get the book or where to read my soon-to-be-published stories, drop me a line, and I will let you know where to find them.

Am I a Writer?

I have a confession to share with you: I am a writer. No, not just here. Duh. I want to be the kind of writer that publishes, and not just writing a blog. In the past, I have written monthly columns for a couple of different publications, but that is not something I do anymore. A writer friend of mine (and he is an actual published writer with something like 14 books available), says if you think you are a writer and you write, then you can call yourself a writer. I have been hesitant to do so until recently. So, call me a writer, but forgive me if I still cringe a bit when I hear the words.

My definition of a writer is someone who writes material that perfect strangers who have never met you find valuable. You can define value any way you want.Value is a relative thing, and maybe a time-relevant thing too. Value can be expressed in money, a following, general appreciation or word of mouth fandom. Of course, every writer inevitably needs to get compensated in order to keep doing it. I am shallow in that way.

My previous columns are old enough now that they are not available anymore, even electronically. My columns are basically dead and buried, as if they had never existed. Does that make me a writer still?

I recently made a switch from writing non-fiction to writing fiction. I have always written it, but until recently I have let precious few ever read it. Now I am taking the plunge head first. I have just submitted a story to 31 different publishers. The odds are against me, but I am proud of the work I am doing, and I will self-publish it if no one buys it.

I have a pretty thick skin, and I know the publishing world is filled with apocryphal stories of great books rejected by every publisher until their prose finally finds a home and becomes a bestseller. Yes, yes, all that is true. Thank you Harry Potter. But the number of people who have written something decent but never found a home has to have odds that are way more than a thousand to one. The effort required just in submitting work makes for an investment in our time and heart. It is one we want to see a return on eventually. Submitting is tiring, not at all fun, and feels like what it is: a meat grinder. Now I myself love the taste of good sausage, but imagine the perspective of the pig. That's what it feels like. I give a piece of my flesh or my heart, and in return I want someone to say they found it worthwhile.

It seems like everybody in the world feels like they have the Great American Novel hidden somewhere inside them. Maybe they do, but making the effort to tell that story, tell it right, and then work hard to find a home for it, requires Herculean effort that is not for the fainthearted. I am fortunate that I have a few people who encourage me in my work. They keep me going, for the journey is risky and the task arduous.

Am I up to this challenge? I think so, but only time will tell. The short story master Raymond Carver said in an interview in the Paris Review that he would sometimes completely rewrite the same short story ten to fifteen times before he felt that it was right. Now that's commitment. Mr. Carver is now long dead from suicide, and people like me are trying to emerge and take his place. Wish us well, and pray for sunnier days ahead.

Your Crap and My Crap, What's the Difference?

Next, on this very special episode of hoarders...

We have a lot of stuff. And by stuff I mean crap. And by crap I mean twenty-six years of accumulation in one house. This house has seen the raising of two kids who have also left their crap, plus our own stuff that has really never been adequately gone through to to reduce the mess.

We are now going through every item in our personal possession and determine what we are to do with it. This is painful drudgery, but is also affirming and in some ways an exhilarating process.

My first reaction was, where did I get all of this crap?

My second reaction was, what do I do with all of this crap?

Thankfully, I have gotten over the former, and am at least dealing with the latter. I think I know how it accumulated, and it is not pretty. So as is my habit, I decided to think about it in a somewhat esoteric way, and I have derived a formula for it. Here it is:

cr =  (c + r) t

Where cr is my crap, c represents my innate curiosity for so many things, r stands for resources with which to purchase or acquire said crap, and t is of course time to do it all. I am no mathematician. I have two other variables, but I am not sure how to factor them in to my equation. The additional factors prevent me from periodically and systematically reviewing said crap to see if it should be removed, sold, given away or thrown away. Those factor are my laziness and my sentimentality.

The big question for me (and you if take on this challenge) is to ask a very difficult question as we look at our stuff. Does this thing make me happy that I own it? I have decided to be ruthless with myself. I am middle aged. I think I know which things I value by now. In the rare case that I am not sure, I have made a vow to myself to be ruthless in removing said items from my possession anyway.

No one can make you review your life and its contents. The question is, what do you want in your life? Is it more stuff? Better stuff? Different stuff? What about ideas, relationships, and people? It all comes down to what you want out of your life and then devising a plan to get there.

The problem for me is that life happened and distracted me from even asking these questions. Those questions are now being asked and hopefully answered so that we can move to the next great thing in our lives.

One thing I am committed to: From now on, I will own my crap. My crap will not own me.