That's going to be the title of my self-published autobiography unless I suddenly begin receiving all sorts of wonderful letters from editors telling me that they love my stuff and want to shower me with gold coin.
This writing gig is such a drag at times. I'm as grateful as I could possibly be regarding those editors who have already bought some of my stuff. Those sales have kept me from throwing myself under a train. Little compares with looking at the mail and finding an acceptance. It's like being a virgin teenage boy and having a girl you've been feeling up give you a signal that it's OK to keep going when you slip your hand under her waistband; an incomparable thrill.
I find the utter lack of response from some editors puzzling, though. Receiving a rejection is one thing, but never hearing at all from someone to whom you've bared your literary soul is so damned disheartening (and confusing, considering the fact that I've been published elsewhere) that I begin to believe that perhaps my talent is entirely polarizing, thrilling some and disgusting others, like John Holmes or Miley Cyrus. In any case, it makes a fellow doubt his own existence, as though I said a cheery "Hello!" to someone, with a big smile on my face, and had the person walk by without a glance. I've come to the belief that being told "You suck!" is preferable to being ignored, which is not a fun way to approach life.
I'll soldier on, though. I have 18 pieces out there for which I'm awaiting replies. I'm currently looking forward to the publication of four other pieces (and to receiving the checks for three of those. One is in the bank, thank you very much.) Whenever I see an actual hard copy of my stuff, it bolsters my spirit for four or five days and spurs me to become creative again. It also gives me a chance to brag on myself here, so rest assured I'll let you know where and when it next happens.
In news you might actually care about, MY WIFE enjoyed Jaws.
It was great fun sitting next to her and hearing her sharply draw in her breath when the shark made an appearance or whatever. Neither of us will be going swimming at the beach anytime soon, but neither of us has been swimming at the beach the entire time we've been married, so no big deal.
What else can I tell you? Oh, yeah. Sorry about the imagery I put in your head of naughty bits being snipped off. It was just so damn disturbing to me I had to talk about it. Thanks for listening.
Finally, how about some nice softball news?
We began our playoffs at M Street with a corker of a game.
SOUTHSIDE TAVERN - 1 The Warehouse - 0 (9 innings)
The living legend, John Gregorio - 33 years in the league as of this season - tossed an extra-inning three-hit shutout for us. We scratched out a run in the top of the ninth.
Oddity of the game? John threw to four different catchers during his masterpiece. I was number three. Due to injury and other unusual circumstances - pinch hitters, etc. - I had to make three switches to the man behind the plate. I caught four innings (the 5th through the 8th) and didn't record an at-bat for myself because of pinch hitting for myself twice (in fast-pitch softball, unlike baseball, there's a re-entry rule, and I was able to pinch-hit for myself in the 7th and then reinsert myself as catcher in the bottom of the inning. I pinch-hit for myself again in the top of the ninth, but that made it impossible for me to re-enter, so a 4th man was behind the plate for the final three outs.)
The series (best two out of three) continues this coming Tuesday at 8:10. If you're in the area, come on down. If past performance means anything, it promises to be a great game to watch.
Finally, here's a photo of my teammate's dog trying to pick up what sort of pitch is being thrown to me as I make an appearance at the plate earlier in the season. If the pooch had somehow been able to relay to me that it was going to be a slider, I probably wouldn't have popped up to the second baseman.