DID YOU HEAR ABOUT MY BOYFRIEND?

The Poet read at a bookstore on Capitol Hill this week. It was a pretty big reading, with many poets from the local press who publishes them. So "The Stranger", one Seattle's alternative weeklies, wrote the thing up on their blog. And The Poet, my poet, was the star of the review. Here's the closing paragraph (with his name changed so he can keep his anonymity on this blog):

"And for those who do not yet know: [Naomi's boyfriend, The Poet] is the shit. If you're looking for good local poetry, you should definitely seek out his new book. [The Poet] read a couple of short poems, and then closed out the night by reading a long poem by the late Harvey Goldner, the much-beloved Bard of Belltown. [The Poet] passed the poem around the room, and a number of the readers took a turn at a few stanzas. It was a touching impromptu tribute to a great talent, and a lovely close to the proceedings."

HOW HARD CAN IT BE?

Last night I drew up a list of places to send my story "Vampire Snippets", and threw in McSweeney's, the hyper hip magazine founded by Dave Eggers.

Instructions are to send submissions by email. Easy-peasy. I'd already written a cover email to another magazine, so I copied the text, change the name from "Blah blah blah" to "McSweeney's" and pressed send. Only after I hit send, I realized I hadn't attached the story.

OK, so I'd email embarrassed myself in front of an anonymous member of the anti-establishment literary establishment. It stung, but I bucked up. The Poet did the same thing once, with a poem he submitted to the big reputation (that is, big in the world of experimental poetry) online magazine Jacket. He ended up getting published.

So, OK. I cut and pasted the text into a new email, checked that I had the correct address and I'd spelled "McSweeney's" correctly, and hit send. Only after I clicked the send button I realized I had forgotten, again, to attach the story.

Doh!!!!!!

Suddenly, I felt exhausted. I looked at the bottom right corner of the screen. It was 10pm. "Serves you right for trying to do this stuff so close to bedtime!" I said to myself. I resisted the urge to send one more email to set it right. Wiser to wait until the morning.

So this morning after breakfast, I fired up the computer, attached the story before I put in any text or even address, so I couldn't make the same mistake a third time. Put in a PS excusing myself for the previous two emails. All good. I pressed send, moved on to the next submission.

Next email submission, I copied my text from the McSweeney's submission email. Only then did I realize I had called McSweeney's an "online magazine". Nope, wrong, not an online magazine. Aaarrggghhh!

There is no way to reach out into cyber space and pull an email back. I can only hope the anonymous, hip, literary counter-establishment member who reads the emails at McSweeney's just skims.

WHERE I'VE BEEN THE PAST SEVEN MONTHS

Last week, I finished the first draft of the memoir I’m writing about my illness.

That is to say, I did it! For the first time in who knows how long, I’ve completed a long-term project that is not a quilt. It’s the first time since getting sick I’ve written anything longer than a short story! Actually it’s much longer than a short story—roughly 600 pages. Over the past seven months, I’ve been blurting into my Cruzer (G:) drive far more than anyone cares to know about a ten-year period in my life. (I didn’t know I had it in me to be that self-obsessed.)

I find it embarrassing that I’ve written so much, as if the 600 flabby pages were flesh and not verbiage. Flabby is still the right word for it. I haven’t reread it, but I’m sure it’s full of excessive recollections and boring tangents, as unsightly as cellulite. But that’s OK. No one has to see it until I cut away all the blubber. This is also known as writing the second draft.

As tempting as it is to start rewriting it now now now, I’m going to set it aside so that when I can come back to it with a fresh perspective. This, I am told, is the most effective approach. Even Zadie Smith recommends it.

After a few days of paying bills, downloading some new music for my ‘pod, and calling the credit card company to tell them to stop sending me those *%#*&^* checks I never asked for (it works, it turns out: they told me they’d stop sending them—try it yourself!), I’m devoting the rest of the month to short stories, perhaps even catching up with this badly neglected blog, and playing Connect 4 and basketball with David, who just arrived last night for his summer visit.

In August I’ll start toning and shaping my whale of a memoir.