Though my love life may be one of constant rejection, my writing career isn't. Well, almost. Now, I've been published--won a few awards even--but , along with my zeal for youth, that's where those achievements remained. Granted, in those years I never thought wholeheartedly of being a "real" writer. Writing was just something I liked to do: playing make-believe with pretty words. Instead of following my enjoyment, and perhaps really making something of it, I took off on a profitable yet miserable journey into the world of management. So now that I've recently been gallivanting ever towards the life of a starving artist--and assumed that label as-of-late--I've got some catching up to do. Writing is my full-time job (so where's the pay check?). I'm working on a novel, Pettjohn's Widow and a short-story "Brother's and Grapevines." I'm enthralled with both. I think (I think, mind you) that "Brothers and Grapevines" is some of my best writing since This Set of Mated Gloves, now frozen on a dead motherboard (see my upcoming post: The Case for Zip-drives). So, journals and lit mags, contests and agents, as I'm excitedly writing and revising away, hear this: REJECT ME,PLEASE. Let me catch up. Let me write and be happy. Let me be published when it's right. Let me be published, eventually.
Write on, shine on,
Thomas.
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