Damn That Witch Who Put the Evil Eye On My Family In 19th Century Abruzzo!

I’ve written maybe two or three posts about my ever-present difficulties regarding writing, the strange happenings surrounding my attempts to produce fiction for publication, the odd and too-constant-to-be-coincidental events that have tried their best to make me break down and scream for mommy, events that include editorial oversights, E-mail glitches, computer crashes, printing errors, embarrassing reviews, lack of familial support (extreme lack) -- frustrating, disappointing events that happen to every writer at least once in their lifetime. But these mysterious happenings present themselves to me all the time.

No exaggeration required here. But the reason I didn't post more often about these happenings is a simple one: I don't want to bore you. If I wanted to subject you, my regular, wonderful readers (all two and a half of you), I would list in excruciating detail, by date, no less, each unfortunate event that has caused me to come to the following conclusion, but I won’t do that lest I lose the two and a half readers I’ve managed to hold on to. Suffice it to say, I have come to the conclusion that there is a curse woven throughout my writing endeavors, and I’m sick of trying to ward it off. My poor fingers are tired of being pointed in a perpetual mano cornuto, my heart is exhausted from the disappointment, my mind warped beyond repair from beating my head against the wall in disbelief. The injustice of it all, the almost laughable way I’ve become Murphy’s bitch has, despite my perseverance, my love of words, caused me to hate writing.

Okay, I can’t help it -- I must tell you about the last unfortunate event (and I do mean last). Okay. So you know how my old whore died and I lost all of my work? How the floppies I’d used to back everything up were somehow ***cue spooky, maniacal laughter*** corrupted? Okay. Okay. Well, after that, the one hundred and fiftieth unfortunate event, I thought I’d just lie on my back and expose my neck to the demon dogs of hell, just accept the fact that I am doomed never to publish again, and end it all with a modicum of dignity. But I couldn’t. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t lie down and die. I’ve been going through a very different kind of hell lately, an even more painful one, and I guess I felt the need to hold on to something that gives me the illusion of being in control. As you will see, however, that illusion has been shattered forever.

So I began writing again, even started a novel that didn’t repulse me to the point of abandonment. Over four thousand words into it, and still going. Well, was going. Anyway, I began writing again, feeling that old hope and excitement regarding submissions -- I’d submitted a story to The Barcelona Review last May and was optimistic about possible publication there. I truly felt that my story would be perfect for this venue, and I so needed a recent publishing success to boost my spirits, get me going again. Make me feel worthy during a time when I’ve never felt so worthless.

But it’d been quite some weeks over the stated response time, so I queried the editor yesterday, confident that she was simply mulling over which font she would use to print my byline in the next issue. Um. No?

She never received my story. I have an auto-response from TBR to prove it got there, but she can’t find the fuck. She kindly asked me to resend, promised she’d “look at it right away,” the dear, but guess what? Remember my old whore, the corrupt disks? Yeah, that’s right. My story’s gone forever, gone, gone, gone. And so, my darlings, am I.