Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts

Poetry Reading: "Finding Your Inner Poetry MacGyver"


Event: Poetry Reading*
Where: Loren G's house**
Date: Saturday, November 15
TIME: 6-8 PM
Address: A515 Hyoseong, Jewelry City, 48-2 Inui-dong, Jongno-Gu
______________________________

All flight attendants are welcome to read if they so desire. A sign-up sheet will be passed among those present, if more than five people show up. ; )

Videos or audio clips are welcome from those who cannot attend due to distance or time (If videos are submitted post-event, we will show them at the next reading). Homemade refreshments will also be welcome from anyone who decides saltines and peanuts are just not enough.

*Special guest appearance by MacGyver
**This is a non-smoking home. Locations outside for snorkelers.


George Cleveland Jefferson Washington


I got word that the fourth wife is getting re-married. I was ecstatic for her, until I asked for the money I had left with her. Apparently, she used the funds to champion her local congregation. I was speechless. Especially when she told me she thought the work she had done with her volunteer service was better than my last term in office. At first, I couldn't tell if she was being facetious or malevolent, but it turns out she actually believed this statement. Dear constituents, I have no words for this affront. Money is a valuable commodity, and should be used to dispose of volunteer services in favor of the truly deserving. That is right. I am talking about you, my constituents. You fine folks who slave over bonds, taxes, and revolutions, to see your children wealthy and powerful, are the truly deserving - not some do-gooder after vengeance!

A flock of seagulls caw behind the President's podium.

Yes, I am just as surprised as you are. Why someone would do such a thing, and not be aware of the hurt something like that would cause, is beyond my faculties. What could I say though? Some people are just blind to others and not very considerate, and there is not much one can do to change that scenario.

"Well," I said to her, "I'm glad you got to make it your own, my dear. I hope your congregation continues to flourish."

"Thank you, Mortimer. I will pass on your gracious blessings to all involved."

"That would be lovely."

"Will you be keeping my good name, Margaret?"

"John asked if I would change it, but I do so much like the sound of it. Margaret Needlebaum. It has a nice ring to it don't you think?"

"Well, we Needlebaum's have always been proud of the sonics of our good name."

My dear constituents, if it were up to me. I would make all who remarry go back to their original names, as it will shine poorly on my good name. Can you just imagine? Margaret is off doing volunteer work, and I will have to suffer the shame of this embarrassment. Oh, dear. When bad fortune befalls us, we must surely take a step back to allow for the entire barrel to be dumped upon the dregs. I am simply waiting for some more bad news to couple this sour day.

My only salvaging consolation is that I don't have to have that kind of inconsiderate and malicious behavior around me ever again. It has even struck me that Margaret may have been this type of voluntarist and adventurer all along. Our nights spent counting gold bullion, and petting each other's wigs was simply a facade for her to get her talons upon my good name and family fortune. How frightful and seemingly devastating it all is. It seems she has been this do-gooder person all along and I simply didn't see it. It's hard to accept, but it could be the truth.

In any case, I am not one to ponder over losses endlessly. She spent funds and is out to sully my good name, and that's reality. All I can do is make more funds, and help you, my constituents, do the same. What else is there? Fight, you say? Get her to change her name? No, no, no. None of that matters. It's just my bowels that are getting upset. I have no idea what that dear woman went though during our separation. God knows I am quite a difficult loss to any woman, and If she needed to start a volunteer service and sully the family name, then so be it. The Needlebaum's have gone through far worse disasters, and they will persevere through this minor incident as well.

That is why I am here among you folks today to announce that the rumor that I will be changing my name George Cleveland Jefferson Washington Lincoln King is a falsity. There is nothing that would keep me from bearing the name, Needlebaum, proudly into the night. And for any of you who would say otherwise, please show yourselves now, so that I may drop you a shilling in hopes that you use the spare change from my children's pockets to offer you a fresh perspective and better life - because any man who who would dare say such a thing is not worthy of being my constituent, and may as well join that woman's needlework group.

Are there any takers?

Nay. No. Nada. Niet.

Well, now that we have that cleared up. I would like to move to the next order of business. Franklin, please call in Bishop Planture. We are going to have to do something about this uprising in Albuquerque. We can't have Experimentalists, or whatever they call themselves, running amok, and ruining Christmas for surveyors of the East Territory. There must be an opportunity for us all to pray to one God, serve only him, and burn any of these so-called Experimentalists who stand in our way.

Aye! Aye! Si. Oui. Way!

Grading Creative Bowel Movements & Wizardry



We had another nice day chatting today. Jim, Loren, and I met up in Itaehwon to enjoy some Indian food. Today our discussion ranged on the various writing workshops we had been a part of; the responses we had received during readings and one-on-one's with established writers; and the issue of grading in a creative writing course.

"How do you grade?" I asked Loren.

"I don't know," he said. "I was asking some of the graduate students about this," he said. "One of them told me that an A- is not good. I asked her about a B or a C, and she said, 'A B is not good. And a C is like, 'you shouldn't be in graduate school - get out!' "

I mentioned how I questioned a high grade I had gotten from Steven Taylor at one time, and how he resolved the issue by giving me a B- from then on out - only to give me an A in the long run.

"Yes," Jim smiled.

"Good," Loren agreed.

I am not sure if creative writing can be graded. I think it defeats the purpose of writing. If they show up and do the work, that is all that is necessary. Maybe. I don't really know. It was good to chat about it though. I feel very lucky to have both Jim and Loren around me.

It was also good to watch SY shower her love on Jim. Today she remarked that she could tell if he was going to have a good or bad day, based on the sound of his bowel movements.

"If it's just a couple farts and then little drops, I think, 'Oh, he is not going to have a good day.' Then I know I have to take care of him."

She says this as she patted his stomach. I managed to laugh uproariously and take a picture simultaneously.


"Does that make it into the blog?" Loren asked.

Well, I guess so. And to add to today's blogging experience, I will continue my one hour required writing project. I'm curious to see what will happen.

___________________________

Max wasn't fond of wizardry. Although he had practiced the black arts on a few occasions, he had yet to really apply himself to his studies. His parents had harped on him the importance of being able to learn an incantation or making the miserable unhappy with a simple 7-day curse, but he spent most of his time hunting for bull frogs instead.

It brought him great joy to fill the empty pickle jars from the pantry, and pour them out onto Gene Wilson's slide to see them slip and stick to the cold metal.

"Slip," he said to them. "Slide."

Gene Wilson, 4 years his younger, enjoyed these displays of zoology, and would often watch Max from his bedroom window. He dreamed of going down to join him in the festivities, but he had been restricted to bed rest for the past year - due to a heavy concussion he had received during a hunting accident.

"Hand me the gun," his father had said.

"Which one?" Gene asked.

No sooner had Gene answered the question, when an unhappy bison, sensing his impending doom, charged full force into his chest. Gene was knocked unconscious, and awoke in a hospital bed in Zurich, where he was informed that a year's bed rest would help him remember who he was, as he couldn't remember which gun he had in his hand (a Winchester shotgun), or exactly who he was (Gene Wilson).

His mother bathed him daily. This was what she had done, when he was 12 the year before, and sensing that old customs in the Wilson household may bring about a change in his condition - she continued to offer these soothing moments.

"Do you remember today?" she asked.

"No," Gene said. "I don't."

Max who had no knowledge of Gene, other than the playground set in his backyard, often wondered why such a thing existed without any child to make it complete. He would wonder about this soon after the bullfrogs had made their way under the slide and back toward the brush of grass that circled the mulched chips that were spread on the playground's floor.

"There must be a kid," he thought.

There was the possibility that Max would look up at that very moment and see Gene Wilson staring at him from his bedroom window, but no such event happened. Max walked back home to study pentagons, and Gene propped up his pillow for a good night's rest.

Jamie Fastetler


Jamie Fastettler liked to edit scientific journals. Everyday she would take out her latest issues of American Scientist or Ethics in Science and Environmental Politics (ESEP) and look for errors in computation. Sometimes she would find a zero that needed to be a two or a five that needed to be a six. This made her giddy with excitement. She would take out her favorite felt tip pen and scratch out the incorrect numbers and replace them with her favorite phrase "BAD COMPUTATION!" Then she would flip through the book like it was a movie, putting her thumb against the front page and letting the pages go past for her visual recognition of "OM AD PUT ON BA PU AT ION" in that order. This exercise gave her an extreme satisfiaction, and she would thank her pet snail, (also named Jamie), who she believed was responsible for her vision, and the real wiz behind flight data and all things mathematical. She often talked to him during these sessions, discussing fashion trends of physicists and whether she would fuck one or the other and in what position. These discussions found their way into the "sex journal" she kept on her at all times and would quote if asked about the weather. ("Doggy style, Dr. Monroe, page 83" is a primitive example; entries after August 11th were more explicit and detailed depending on her disposition, lunar modulations, or bad weather.) No one understood these outbursts, but Jamie didn't take it personally. The reactions she elicited only facilitated her feelings of alienation and that was what she wanted to accomplish in the first place. (It is possible Jamie would disagree with this statement and talk about her snail's "proclivities for pantyhose over Aquanet," but apples and oranges are fruit and Jamie wasn't one to feel too dissuaded by co-workers contorting their faces in confused or superciliary manners. They were simply, "unable to understand snails because they had speech impediments," or at least this is what she would say when she worked at KFC two weeks ago. Now that she was at Popeye's she decided this statement was contrary to how she really felt. She wasn't sure why this had come about, but she trusted her instinct to replace all future thoughts of inferiority with "Jamie is a nuisance and takes it in the ass!" aloud or privately in her mind.)

First Songs

Briggs was in high school. He had just gotten out of computer club. He walked down the yellow hallway to the front entrance. His friend, Nick, was on the stoop. He had a Casio SK-1 on his lap. He was practicing some "Great Balls of Fire."

"That sounds good," Briggs said, tapping his foot.

"Yeah," Nick agreed. "It's Jerry Lewis."

Briggs didn't know Jerry Lewis. He had never heard of him. All he knew was the stuff he got on a mix tape from a kid in his neighborhood. It didn't have Jerry Lewis.

"Can we write a song together?" Briggs asked.

"Okay," Nick said.

Briggs sat down next to Nick. He imagined himself a famous star. He would be onstage. People would take his picture. He would smile. Then they would play their song.

"What do you know?" Nick asked.

"Um," Briggs smiled. "Lets just make it up."

"Make it up?"

"Yeah."

Nick played a few chords. Briggs tapped his foot. Then he sang like he felt.

"Oh, Errrriiiiin! Oooh Oooh. Eriiiiinnnn."

Briggs had met Erin in first grade. They went out for 2 years. It wasn't until The Temple of Doom came out, that he moved. That was the last time he saw her. Now he was singing about the time she asked him to be her husband underneath the pine trees. This was what Briggs knew. It was what singing meant to him.

"You got to sing about what's most important," he explained to his mother when he got home . "That's what music is about."

"Okay," his mother smiled. "Do you want a snack?"

"A yogurt."

Briggs went to his room. He wrote 2 songs. They were about the yellow hallway in school; the way the girls looked when he talked about bugs; and his dreams to be a basketball star . He put them in his Trapper Keeper. He was going to show Nick tomorrow. They could write hundreds of songs. The yellow hallway was just the beginning.

"The Yellow Hallway"

We walked down the yellow hallway.
It was me and Nick.
The girls made faces.
We were singing.

Bugs! Bugs!
Bury them bugs!
I got a 100 bugs!

Eeeew, the girls said.
Eeeew, you're gross!

We played basketball in the gym.
It was me and Nick.
The girls made faces.
We were singing.

Balls! Balls!
Bounce them balls!
I got a 100 balls!

Eeeew, the girls said.
Eeeew, you're gross!

"The Yellow Hallway, The Sequel Like Indiana Jones"

I am good at math.
Mrs. Manila said so
Her class is next to the yellow hallway.
That's where our lockers are.

We're in the 6th grade.
We're cool.
We can play songs.
We're going to be famous.

Do you want our autograph?
You can't have it.
Not for all your Garbage Pail Kids.
Not for an A in math.

Only Erin gets autographs.
She's my girl.
She makes me happy.
I miss her.

I'm in the 6th grade.
She's in 5th grade.
She lives in New Jersey.
I live here.

Breaking Down the Walls Around Writer's Block and Artistic Expression

[ Only you know best. This is what works for me. Take it or leave it.]

There are 3 ways to get rid of writer's block or launch yourself into creative expression.

#1. Let go of judgment!

Once you let go of the idea of good or bad in your art, the possibilities will be infinite. I have written in detail about this on HOW TO BUILD A LIGHT SABER, but for simplicity's sake let me break it down into its bare minimum:

Negative thoughts change your body chemistry. The only way to lose them is by asking questions. You can use Byron Katie, and identify the stressful thoughts you have around art i.e. "This is not academic enough" or "My painting sucks." Are these thoughts true? Who would you be without them? And then turn it around.

#2. Find gratitude.

I usually find that the reason I get art depression is because I become goal-oriented, or as I call it, "endzone-oriented." I am consumed with how to get something out to the world, rather than what I am or have actually created. In order to get out of this future thinking, I have found that gratitude is the easiest path to clarity. When you look around and appreciate the little things that make up your life, goal-oriented thoughts are left by the wayside and you are brought back to the centered place from which your art began.

#3. Discover your intention.

Another way out of writer's block or stressful thoughts around creation is to discover your intention. I recommend asking the following: What inspires me? Why do I write? What is my intention? These questions will return or catalyse the possibility for creation. It will help you lose the idea of the waiting game 'it will come when it comes' mentality, which is not true, and if you don't believe me, take it to inquiry and find out for yourself.

Now, finally, I will give my advice on the following questions which I have been asked in heart-to-hearts, emails, etc.:

"Can you tell me how to get published?" and "How can my writing be better?"

I will take the last one first. "How can your writing be better?" you ask. I say, "Lose that thought." Once you stop being consumed with approval, applause, and your own self-preservation, you will come face-to-face with what makes your particular work the best that it is. It is this simple.

So many times I see artists so busy worrying about genres, classifications, or if people like them, that I think, 'How in the world do these people have time to create?' I mean it really is a testament to how all human beings have unlimited potential. We can be filled with so many thoughts and still manage to make a painting. But imagine not having this clouded mind. What if there was no mind when you approached your art?

Yes, my sentiments exactly. And it really is easy. Just question your stressful thoughts, get grateful for being alive, notice the little things, and roll with it.

Some people will like particular pieces more than others, and this is just taste so don't take it personal. And if you do, look at the critique; ask if it's true, see who you would be without it, and move on.

For artists who believe canons are important or a certain sense of lineage when approaching art, good luck! I have no real advice for you, besides the truth, which is you're going to have to drop the conceptual frameworks you learned at your MFA or PhD programs before you find that voice which is yours.

And this doesn't mean I am against classical education or advanced programs, I just know that some human beings are better served painting without any frame of reference, while others are seeking a more, academic route of exhibition or livelihood. Neither is better than the other. It's just different tastes. Don't get hung up on it.

I, personally, dig dirty music more than refined pop, but then again, I don't mind dropping a little Justin Timberlake on itunes after a Doors-Nirvana-Foo Fighters marathon. It all depends on how I'm feeling.

This brings me to the last and most important advice I have to offer and that is openness. As soon as I have thought solidly about something, it invariably turns jellyfish on me and oozes on the floor.

Don't be afraid to be open. It is a healthy position for the mind. It takes itself easy on us when we are this clear. It also zooms out of the picture frame or microscope slide of our lives to reveal a much, bigger scope of what our lives may mean for one another, and the unlimited possibility such a super telescope provides.

I wish you all the best on your journeys, and happiness with your creative and life endeavors. Please know that I will respond to all art that is sent to me. It may take time, but feel free to send me work or links. I will do my best to respond as soon as I can. And know that I really love being sent little gifts like that. It is so thoughtful and a real blessing. Thank you.

If you would like more information on my approach to art or life, visit HOW TO BUILD A LIGHT SABER or download GOLDEN ASHTRAY.
Oh, and one last thing. Reading. I read a lot. If you're working on craft or language, etc. Reading is so nutritious.

Anyway, like I have said earlier, take or leave my approach. Only you know best. Trust that.

Adios compadres,

The Desert Rose
Pirooz M. Kalayeh


PS. How do you get published? The Internet. Do-it-yourself. Meet someone.

Independent Publishers Who Accept Non-Agented Queries

I will continue this list, until I know what publishers I dig and which I don't. I hope this is useful for the writers in our community. If I have omitted someone that definitely needs adding, let me know. Just remember I am only up to the C's as of today.


Fiction Publishers


Academy Chicago Publishers

Editorial & Marketing Departments:Academy Chicago Publishers363 West Erie Street, 7EChicago, Illinois 60610Phone: 312/751-7300 or 800/248-READFax: 312/751-7306
info@academychicago.compublicity@academychicago.com

By and large, Academy Chicago does not publish books with explicit, gratuitous sex and violence; we no longer publish science fiction or thrillers, neither of which do very well for us. We do not publish cookbooks, self-help or books dealing with the supernatural--that is, anything to do with angels and life after death, although we do publish ghost stories; however, most of the latter which we do publish are classics. We do not publish horror or photography books, nor do we do children's books, other than children's classics. We do not have any Young Adult classification.

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Akashic Books is a Brooklyn-based independent company dedicated to publishing urban literary fiction and political nonfiction by authors who are either ignored by the mainstream, or who have no interest in working within the ever-consolidating ranks of the major corporate publishers. Akashic BooksP.O. Box 1456 New York, NY 10009Tel: 718.643.9193/Fax: 718.643.9195 email: akashic7@aol.com

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Aresenal Pulp Press

First submissions should include a marketing analysis, a synopsis of the work, and a sample (fifty to sixty pages is usually enough). If our editorial board is interested, you will be asked to send the entire manuscript.

Editorial BoardArsenal Pulp Press341 Water Street, Suite 200Vancouver, BC CanadaV6B 1B8

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Avocet Press Inc is a small, independent publisher of a wide variety of quality literature. Our offerings range from important contemporary poetry to mysteries to beautifully written historical fiction. We are particularly interested in work that is different, exciting, and awakens us to angles of the world that we haven't noticed before.

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Founded in 1955, GEORGE BRAZILLER, INC. is a small, independent publishing house based in New York City. For over 45 years, we have been publishing outstanding international literature and some of the most beautiful and renowned books on art and architecture. We pride ourselves on consistently publishing books of exceptional content and quality, as well as consistently discovering new writers and exploring new areas in the world of art. The diversity of our list, which embraces fiction, nonfiction, poetry, art, architecture, and design, continues to be an important aspect of our publishing program.

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Carolina Wren Press is a nonprofit organization whose mission is to publish quality writing, especially by writers historically neglected by mainstream publishing, and to develop diverse and vital audiences through publishing, outreach, and educational programs.

CAROLINA WREN PRESS 120 Morris St., Durham NC 27701.(919)560-2738. Email: carolinawrenpress at earthlink.net .Website: http://www.carolinawrenpress.org/.Contact: Andrea Selch, president.Estab. 1976.

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Cavan Kerry Press

Dedicated to the advancement of the art of writing and to outreach programs that bring this art to under-served communities, CavanKerry publishes established writers and hitherto unpublished writers, as well as out-of-print work, collections of essays, and anthologies that spotlight and support other arts organizations. From its inception, CavanKerry has placed an emphasis on publishing gifted though unrecognized poets and is committed to publishing three first collections a year. These manuscripts are selected from open submission without the more traditional fee-for-entry competition that support many first books.

Florenz Eisman, Managing EditorCavanKerry Press Ltd.99 BoulevardGlen Rock, NJ 07452

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Chiasmus Press is a Northwest, Portland-based literary collective intent on printing the most innovative emerging authors, those who have been excluded or have not yet been co-opted by the mainstream-print-industry or well established, often academically entrenched, forms of Avant-gardisms. As Chiasmus (ky-AZ-mus) n. is defined as a reversal in the order of words in two otherwise parallel phrases, our purpose is to promote a reversal in the order of words in two otherwise parallel realities.

Chiasmus Press is a mutating imprint (or imprinting mutation), evolving from Two Girls Press, founded by Lidia Yuknavitch, the publisher of Northwest Edge: Deviant Fictions, as well as the literary magazine, two girls review.

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Chronicle Books


About Us : Mission Statement"Inspired by the enduring magic and importance of books, our objective is to create and distribute exceptional publishing that's instantly recognizable for its spirit, creativity, and value. This objective also informs our business relationships and endeavors, be they with customers, authors, vendors, or colleagues."

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Clear Cut Press was founded and is run by Richard Jensen, a former executive of Sub Pop Records (Nirvana, Mudhoney) and co-founder of Up Records (Modest Mouse, Built to Spill), and Matthew Stadler, a novelist (Allan Stein) and literary editor of Nest magazine. As a business and artistic venture, Clear Cut is inspired by early 20th-century subscription presses Hours Press and Contact Editions, and by the midcentury paperbacks of New Directions and City Lights. These historical models seem well-suited to the independent economies that emerge every generation or so around the cultural movements and new demands of global youth, whether punk, grunge, hip-hop, hippie, beatnik or flapper.

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Poetry Publishers

Adventures In Poetry (This is for Jim Goar)
AIP 25 White PlaceBrookline, MA02445Phone: 617.734.0661 Fax: 617.734.0661 editor@adventuresinpoetry.com

ADVENTURES IN POETRY began publishing in 1968 as a mimeographed “little magazine,” and continued through 1976 with individual pamphlets, featuring work by John Ashbery, William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Bernadette Mayer, Frank O'Hara, James Schuyler, Anne Waldman and numerous others.

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The Alice James Poetry Cooperative currently accepts submissions only through its two annual competitions: The Kinereth Gensler Award (formerly The New England / New York Competition) and the Beatrice Hawley Award.

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Apogee Press publishes the work of innovative and experimental poets.Culturally and formally diverse, our poets share an original use of language.

Apogee PressP.O. Box 8177Berkeley, CA 94707-8177mailto:94707-8177editors@ApogeePress.com

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Atelos was founded in 1995 as a project of Hip's Road, devoted topublishing, under the sign of poetry, writing which challenges theconventional definitions of poetry, since such definitions havetended to isolate poetry from intellectual life, arrest its development,and curtail its impact. (does not accept unsolicited ms)

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Ausable Press

Ausable Press1026 Hurricane RoadKeene NY 12942

Founded in 1999 by poet Chase Twichell, Ausable Press (pronounced aw-SAY-bul) is a not-for-profit independent literary press located on the East Branch of the Ausable River in the Adirondack Mountains of northern New York. Its mission is to publish poetry that investigates and expresses human consciousness in language that goes where prose cannot.

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Autumn House Press was launched in 1998 when prominent American publishers, driven by economic concerns, dramatically reduced their poetry lists and important contemporary poets were left struggling to find publishers. Small presses are now publishing some of the most important poetry in America, and are largely nurturing the great American poetic tradition. We want to ensure that this tradition continues.

We believe poetry is an affirmation of the deep and elemental range of our human experience, and our need for it is as crucial now as it ever has been. We are committed not just to publishing the prominent poets of our age, but also to publishing first books and lesser-known authors who will become the important poets of their generation. We pledge to edit this poetry with devotion and care, and to create beautiful books that are
worthy of it.

Autumn House PressP.O. Box 60100Pittsburgh PA 15211

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BOA EDITIONS, LTD. is a Pulitzer Prize-winning, not-for-profit publishing house that has received national acclaim for its work. Founded in 1976 by the late poet, editor and translator, A. Poulin, Jr., BOA has published more than 170 books of American poetry and poetry in translation. Beginning in 2007, the press will begin publishing fiction through its American Reader Series.

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Chax Press publishes writing that does not take things for granted — things like "what is a poem,""what is an author," or "what does it mean to read?"

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A Short List of Publishers Who Are Humor/Satire Friendly

I have created a short list of possible publishers for The Whopper Strategies. This is a preliminary list. Some will require an agent.

For those writers who are looking to publish humor/satire type novels. These may prove to be a good resource.

Creative Guy Publishing
Accept initial e-queries. Looking specifically for novellas (15 to 40K)
Lots of humor...

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DAW Books
375 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014

Novels in the 80,000 wd range. Looking for Sci fi/Fantasy
(I could pitch TWS in this avenue; a longshot but worth a try)

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Tor Books
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010

Sci-fi and Fantasy (Patrick Nielsen)
(Longshot)

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Melville House Publishing
(Crazy Indie - No rules)

300 Observer Highway
Third Floor
Hoboken, NJ 07030

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Adams Media Corporation
Humor books
(Corporate manuals and such)

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Manic D Press
(My favorite press so far--like me)
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Villard (Multicultural and humor friendly)
Crown Publishing Group (Some satire books)
Andrews McMeel Publishing (Calvin & Hobbes fame)

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I love the idea of selling TWS as a real manual. It looks like I will have a shot at a pitch to Adams Media Corporation. Who knows? They just might see the potential.

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Notes: (to self)

Dude, look how easy it is. Just do the work and then find the niche market.

Identify what you're trying to sell. Is it a humor book? A science fiction piece?

Nat says it reminds him of Bright Lights, Big City, Brett Easton, and J. Mcierney. Look these guys up. See who their editors were. What companies?

Any other possibilities?

Hmmm...I don't know. I will start pouring over the physical texts after a couple more days on the internet.

If anyone comes across a publisher or agent, who seems a fit for TWS send their contact info or website my way. I'll check them out.

Best,

Pirooz Kalayeh

Yes, it is

My Indiana Girl

I am in love. No, that's not the right word. It's not love. It's more like a crush. But it would be better to use the word "crunch" because that’s how I feel when it comes to IndianaGirl. Believe me. I try. I flirt. I show all the signs of saying, "Hey, do you like milk, because I like milk too.” I get looks. A great smile. A Midwest lilt. Laughter. Even smiley faces and lol over and over.

“You got to hit the ball over there,” Dacheux tells me

“Hit the ball?”

“Yeah,” she tells me. “It's not Wimbledon. You just got to hit it

"So you're saying it's more like the Junior's? I got to work myself to the national championship?"

"Yeah, sure." she laughs. "It's the Junior's. Now you got to hit something over there. See what happens."

"Sometimes I feel like I'm in Dangerous Liaisons, the Board Game. You ever see that movie?"

"Yeah," she laughs. "That would be a great board game."

“But it can’t look like Trivial Pursuit. It has to be like Chutes and Ladders with all the ladders and everything.”

“Yeah, then we can slide down.”

Today I sit and stare. I got a heart and paperclips in my pocket. I’ve got a beard. It’s got red in it. I look in the monitor. I am handsome. This is the truth. I tell IndianaGirl. I IM it. James Bond style.

“I can see myself in the monitor. I am handsome. This is the truth. I also dance naked to 80’s jams. It makes me feel good. I am going to dance today after work. That’s it. I’ve decided.”

“I love that you told me that,” her IM giggles. “I dance naked all the time. Most girls do. I like picturing a guy dance naked by themselves. It’s sexy.”

This is the moment. No hesitation.

“You still going to do Wonder Woman for me?”

“Not in the office.”

“Why not?”

I wait for a reply. I listen to The Slipshod Swingers. I don’t do any work. I think about fictional dates. Dacheux tells me it’s the only way.

“Fictional?”

“Yeah, I go on them all the time. I sit around on my sofa and go to New York City. I imagine what I say, what Allan will say. It’s great.”

“Mmmm. I haven’t ever done that.”

“Oh, you got to.”

It would be nice to go to the House of Pies with IndianaGirl. I would get lemon meringue. A glass of milk. We could talk about Dangerous Liaisons, the Board Game.

“Have you ever heard of it?” I ask her.

“No,” she laughs. “But I have heard of Memoir of Geisha, the Card Game.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty good. It involves a lot of looking. You got to make people stop in their tracks.”

“I could do that.”

“So you think you could make me stop in my tracks?”

“Sure, watch.”

I give her my look. It could melt butter. It puts Zoolander to shame.

“That’s pretty good,” she laughs. “You want to see mine.”

She tilts her head down to the pie. She laughs a little. Then [lights up.]

A man and woman sit across from one another. The woman is looking down at her pie. The man looks intently at her. She looks up.

Man: Devastating.

Woman: (Laughs) Yeah, right.

Man: No, it’s devastating. I can’t even move. You are the Geisha. You win. I give up.

Woman: (Laughing) I love your style. You need to have your own reality show.

Man: Already got one. It's happening right now. It's you and me.

Woman: Nice.

Man: Yeah, it is.

Woman: You want some of my pie?

Man: Yeah.

Woman picks at pie. Man drinks from his glass.

They look at one another. Then [lights down.]

Cue MUSIC.

A strange newness

My body is going through a strange newness. I am not sure if this has to do with getting over the flu or what. I feel different though.

Tonight I went to bed at 6PM. I literally could not keep my eyes open. Now I am awake at midnight. What is going on?

The last time I had this sleeping schedule it was novel time. I am thinking about the novel, but not really writing. I have actually been reading THE SECRET GARDEN by FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. I like it very much. The set-up especially. I love that Mary has to learn how to make friends with those around her; how she realizes she is sour and disagreeable after receiving love from the robin, Martha, the gardener, and Dickon. It really is a timeless book.

I feel like Mary. Dickon too. Even Martha. (Is that how I know a good book? When you can see yourself in every character, or the author as every character? I wonder.)

...

2. My Worst Day

“Hey you,” the voice said, “with the can.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Can you dance?”

I picked up my foot. It came down with a crash. I could see the water move. It was in a puddle. It was next to my foot. I liked the way water moved. I wished I could move like water. I couldn’t though. Believe me. I tried. The other day I lied down on the grass. I pretended like I was the ocean. I moved my stomach up and down. It felt good. I couldn’t move everything at the same time though. It just looked like I was breathing.

“What are you doing?” Lisa asked.

I told her I was the ocean.

She lied down next to me. She held my hand. We were best friends. It felt good to be there with her. She made my chest feel real big. It felt like the ocean. I told her we didn’t need to move anything. We were doing pretty good just lying there.

“Yeah,” she said.

Then she said it.

“I’m moving.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Far away,” she said.

I was pretty sad. I thought we were going to be together forever.

“No,” she told me. “I’m moving.”

We lied there on the grass. We were oceans. We were 12 years in the making. We were stars. Now we were sad. I looked up at the sidewalk. I could see some ants through the blades of grass. I reached up and touched one. So did Lisa. She was just like me. She was my best friend. I was going to miss her real bad.

“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”

I walked her home. Then I went home. I thought about dancing. I didn’t know if I could move like an ocean. It was hard. Oceans are pretty big. They are a lot like space. I couldn’t even imagine being space. That was a lot bigger. I wondered how space moved. I lied down on the picnic table. I pretended I was space. I didn’t move at all. I just felt everything moving inside me. I could feel my heart. It was loud in my ear. I could feel my stomach. Then I felt something fly through me. I think it was a comet. Maybe, it was a star. I imagined I could feel the Earth. I could feel Lisa. She felt like the ocean. I stayed like that for a while. I didn’t even hear myself crying. I was space. I just lied there. I didn’t move at all.