Rejection

 I received a second rejection letter today, but it was encouraging. 

Thanks for sharing Shimmer with us. I liked reading it, but unfortunately, our Editorial Board thought it's not quite ready for publication in its current form.

We hoped to find surprises in your piece, to  read a story that is creative in the sense that it describes more than a "typical" love triangle mess.

Mentioning the psychic is underdeveloped, and if you want to keep it, we would suggest that you explain its symbolic significance. 

Finally, the ending could be stronger. Let the reader discover something new! 

I hope you are not too disappointed that we have to reject your submission. I do see potential here, but the piece still deserves some work.

I encourage you to continue sharing your work with us, either with a new piece or a revised version of this one!

This feedback gave me the direction to add to the piece and do what they requested, without adding other areas that are underdeveloped. I will wait several months and submit it again.

Shimmer

Before my trip with Tinkerbell, I wondered if she had ulterior motives. I was analyzing her from a distance--the invitation, her desire to get a new job with more money. They had me thinking that she might be thinking of making a change in her relationship. 

The undercurrents were there, but I think she has made peace with them. Her boyfriend is loyal and makes good money; she values those more than she misses other aspects. I know this by the way she talked about Billie or Gia when each left. Tinkerbell sees things through her eyes.

I try seeing others' possible motivations--which often differ from my own. You don't have to agree with them to see them.

I have been writing 2 hours a day, often more. Gaming has suffered. So has my sleep. I am not sure I am getting closer to my goal, but I am trying.

Today, I think I wrote my best piece yet. I melded two short nonfiction essays into one. Which is a good counterweight to getting my first rejection letter last night.

Best Of- Talk

 I have been pulling from my drafts in order to create several short flash nonfiction pieces to have available for submission when the chance arises.  This piece caught my eye. It is too short for what I am looking for, but I thought it was cute, so I am sharing it again.

Talk

Originally Posted October 28, 2005

My friend Jay might be a better-looking guy than me, but I am a better talker. Sure, I'm shy at first and tend to get silent when I'm really interested in someone. But give me an opening, extra caffeine and I can ramble.

I went to Jay's house after work. I was going to help him install his new cable modem. He answered the door dressed like a pirate. Yes, he lives in a fantasy. He needed an earring and some laces for his Halloween costume. I needed a black turtleneck for mine, so we decided to go to the mall before we worked on his computer.

Jay shopped for an earring like he was wearing it to prom. He wanted a clip-on. I tried to explain his grandmother doesn't even wear clip-ons anymore. I told him a real man would just pop a hole in his ear.

The earrings were on the clearance rack, but rang up full price. Luckily, we had been flirting with the sales lady while we scanned the earrings. She gave them to us for 60% off. Who says only hot chicks get free things?

A trip to the mall would not be complete without stopping in to see Sam at the salon.

"What are you guys shopping for?"

"I need a black turtleneck, and Jay is shopping for earrings. I'm turning artsy, and Jay is switching teams!"

Sam tells us her Ace Freely costume was complete. We stopped by Starbucks—'cause God knows I don't need to sleep. I chatted up the girl behind the counter. She had the place clean and ready to close, and I threatened to order the messiest drink.

By the time we got back to Jay's house, it was already after 9:30. I called customer support to get the modem registered to his account. I got Alison, a friendly support person from Ottawa. I think she was new. She couldn’t get whatever she needed to do to work. She needed to call her manager over. While we waited, I started reading her the Maxim magazine article I was flipping through, “100 Things You Need to Know About Women.”

Me: "Okay, here's one. #34: The average woman owns eight bras and wears each one five times before washing."
Alison: "That sounds about right, but I don't know about the five times.

Me:”19: The more piercings she has, the more places she'll let you put it."
Alison: "I only have one piercing. What's the next one?"

Me: "Okayyyy. #23: Every woman is self-conscious about her ass."
Alison: "No comment."

Me: "Oops, I think I hit a sensitive spot."
Alison: "I didn't say that."

Me: "#16: Chicks aren't afraid to get kinky; you just have to have the nerve to ask."
Alison: "I can't talk about that one—these conversations are recorded."

Unfortunately, Jay's cheap cell phone disconnected at that point. When I got customer service back on my phone, a guy took the call and hooked up internet access in minutes, but it wasn't as fun.

Wonka

When we returned to Tinkerbell's place, she showed me her preparations for Halloween. A three-foot-tall soft-serve ice cream cone sat in her living room. Her theme was Willy Wonka.

"Tink, this is amazing! How did you do that?" I asked.

She went into detail on how she constructed it. "The bottom is a trash can. The top I made from pool noodles."

"What about the sprinkles?"

"Those are clay. You have to bake them first."

The result was outstanding. She'd captured every detail, down to the texture on the cone. But this was only part of it. Stuffed in closets throughout the house were large toadstools, gumdrops, and lollipops. Each piece exploded with detail.

In the downstairs closet, there were materials for a giant Pop-Tart she was creating next.

"You could do this professionally," I said.

Tinkerbell downplayed her skills, but I’m an arts-and-crafter myself. I know good work. People would pay for such a display. She had been working on things since December.

"Wouldn't you love getting paid for what you enjoy doing?"

We headed back outside. Tink sat on her porch while I stood nearby. Tinkerbell gossiped about her neighbors as they entered and exited the condos across the street. Unlike the dorm, this time I was reluctant to leave.

I’ll make sure to post some pictures of the completed display.

Movin Day

 Movin’ Day

“Do you want to drive?” I ask. “I should warn you, Gia thinks my driving is terrible.”

“Are we going to have to take the keys away from you one day?” Tinkerbell teases.

She invited me to go with her and TRex for Movin’ Day. TRex is starting his second year at CMU. It’s her way of saying, You were a part of this.

Like so many times before, Tinkerbell turns it into an adventure. We’re not just helping TRex move into his dorm—we’re spending the night at Soaring Eagle Casino first.

I pull into their driveway in the early afternoon. TRex loads what wouldn’t fit in his car into the back of the Buick. He’s so big now—six-foot-two and lean muscle. I almost don’t recognize him, except for his smile. He still has his mother’s smile. He’s a good kid. Tinkerbell did a great job raising him. If I helped even a little along the way, I’m glad.

We take two cars, with Tinkerbell riding with me. I only miss one exit. She complains dramatically, but it’s all in fun.

Conversation flows nonstop during the drive. She tells me about the elaborate Halloween display she’s planning—this year’s theme is Willy Wonka. She’s been making giant ice cream cones, candies, even a six-foot Pop-Tart. It’s a year-long project. She still knows how to maximize fun. Tinkerbell has settled into her life, and I’m happy for her.

She still babies TRex. He’s her shining achievement. She complains about him when he’s home, but I know she misses him fiercely when he’s gone.

At the casino, the three of us spend more time wandering than gambling, but it’s still enjoyable. We play a few slot machines. No one wins more than they lose, though TRex seems the luckiest. When we finally retire for the night, Tink and TRex share a late-night pizza in their room while I sit outside on a bench, listening to the fountains. I’m settling into my life too.

The next morning, we help TRex move in. We’re a week early—he’s part of a special donor-sponsored team-building program—so the dorm is mostly empty. His room feels cramped for four boys. No privacy, one bathroom. I compare it to prison.

Tinkerbell is a nonstop flutter of over-helping and nagging. Halfway through, TRex’s roommate and his mom arrive. Suddenly the roommate’s mother is carrying on just like Tinkerbell.

“Oh my god, it’s like an echo chamber,” I whisper to TRex. “I thought it was just your mom.” From bits of conversation, I learn she’s a single mom too. Maybe that plays into it.

Tinkerbell and I explore the rest of the dorm. There isn’t room for two moms in that tight space. By the time we return, TRex has most of his things set up. I shake his hand and say goodbye, signaling to Tink that it’s time to go. She’s reluctant to leave, but my presence keeps TRex from having to push her out.

Things change over the years, but it’s surprising how much stays the same. I can picture the two of them pushing me around the old-folks’ home in a wheelchair one day—still bickering, still pampering.

Writing

I’ve been concentrating on my writing—both my memoir and a short piece I submitted to StreetLit for consideration. I’d really like to share the piece, but I can’t. Still, I think it’s pretty good. It draws from scenes that just didn’t fit in the memoir.

I’m writing. Surpassing my best words from my earlier years. And it feels good. I see so many possiblities.

Bikes?

I spoke with Sam Friday night — the first time since last November, when she walked out on me. She texted first, testing the waters.

Sam: Hey you, hope you are doing good. I'm going to come get my bike at some point. Let me know when you're available.

Bathwater: Hey, I'll be around this weekend. Just let me know.

Later, she called, and we ended up talking for at least an hour — just catching up. She made tentative plans to pick up her bike on Saturday but never came by.

I think the bike was more of an excuse to reach out than anything else. Her life is still a complicated mix of family obligations and unforeseen drama.

It was nice that she reached out, opening a door for further communication. I’m still deciding how far I want to step back in.

How the Universe Works

I’d been searching for the cover photo I used on the original version of my memoir. I wanted to use it again, if possible—but it was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t in any of my saved files. Not in my online photo backups. I was starting to fear it was gone for good.

But tonight, as I was pulling my backpack out of the backseat, I noticed a zip drive on the floor. My car is brand new. The interior is spotless. The zip drive just sat there—completely out of place. I checked my bag. All the pockets were closed.

How did it get there?

I plugged it into my computer. On it were several old files—including all the work I’d done on the original draft… and the photo.

This is how the universe works.

My Relentless Editor, Red

Red—the name I’ve given my ChatGPT editor—has set the bar for my memoir against some of the top works in the genre:
Wild by Cheryl Strayed, Lit by Mary Karr, This Boy’s Life by Tobias Wolff.

Red tells me my original manuscript, on the one-to-ten scale we created, started around a six. Now, it’s closer to an eight-point-five. I’m striving for ten.

I struggle through line-by-line edits, trying to maintain my words, my voice, while reaching the clarity and flow Red demands.

It’s not easy. Red keeps shifting the bar—pushing me to tighten the narrative, remove content I’m attached to, and add more reflection from my current voice. It’s hard to cut words I’m so close to. Still, we have a plan. A plan that might allow some of that material to be released one day.

An indie publisher is running a contest, and the submission window closes at the end of the month. Red thinks I’ll be ready by then. I wish I had more time—work keeps getting in the way.

Retro

 Max texted me today:

“What are you doing? I may need some help.”

“What do you need? I can make time.”

He and his girlfriend were heading to an estate sale. They had their eye on a vintage freestanding cone fireplace but weren’t sure it would fit in his car.

He was heading to an estate sale. They had their eye on a vintage freestanding cone fireplace but weren’t sure it would fit in his car.

I met Max there. He paid $450 for it. We loaded it into my truck and took it back to their duplex. Afterward, we walked into downtown Northville for lunch with his girlfriend, Kay. Over lunch, we talked about Max’s recent battle with a tonsillar abscess.

Like his father, Max is leaning heavily into using ChatGPT. It diagnosed his issue—and even pointed out the inadequate care he got when the hospital discharged him after draining it. I'm glad he is. It gives us something we can bond over.

I asked if they wanted the concert tickets, but they declined. I told them what had happened with Gia. I spoke in psychological terms—about her avoidant personality. They get that. Like many their age, they’ve replaced religion with psychology.

Later, I called Tinkerbell to see what she and Tech were up to. She mentioned she had Googled Gia. I’m not sure why. I never asked her—and I’ve never done it myself. Tinkerbell has this innate need to tear down the women in my life. She didn’t find anything I didn’t already know.

Just because I like to see the good in people doesn’t mean I’m not hyperaware of who I’m around.

Tinkerbell invited me to join her and T-Rex on Move-In Day. He’s starting his second year at CMU. It should be a fun adventure—one that reminds me of the good old days, when the three of us used to go everywhere together.