I have been working on a short story this week. I've set my expectations rather low and am trying to write something to contribute to the old grad school alumni magazine. It's not that I don't respect the publication and all of the work that goes into it...a lot of good writers have published work in this magazine...it's just that their acceptance rate is pretty high from what I understand, as long as you're a current student or graduate of the Notre Dame writing program--the only sources of writing the magazine accepts anyway. Which is fine, it's a good outlet, and I'm glad that even well-established writers and graduates of the ND program still contribute to it. Plus, I never sent them anything when I was a student. I suppose I just feel like I ought to be setting the bar higher for myself. Still, I'm putting every bit as much effort into this writing as I would for any other manuscript, and I am enjoying the narrative that I've got going so far, it's just that it's taking a goddamn long time. I seem to be writing sometimes in these haphazard kind of fits and starts, but lately, I'm just blocked or bored or distracted or whatever. This whole unemployment thing is really fucking with my rhythm. Plus I have a wonderful cold or maybe bronchitis or maybe pneumonia right now that my lovely wife gave me.
But this is not a good excuse. After all, I went out last night, checked out Bad Meaning Good, a fun little movie event at this dive bar in the neighborhood. Everyone gets together to drink and watch a terrible movie and holler at the screen fun things about the movie's awfulness. It was a lot of silly fun. And if I can muster up the strength to walk to this joint and watch a terrible movie, I ought to be able to write a decent short story.
Or a bad one, even. I suppose I should stop this nonsense and get to work.
Or go to the store to get the stuff to make empanadas. That sounds really delicious to me right now.
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