When Nothing's Going Right

Off to church again in Fishers at 8 30 and back around 1:30. I started to do some work on the computer, but felt too rocky. I napped, which took too long. I managed to get to McClure's around 4:30. Then it was back here. 

It has been a long strange evening. It has been like walking in cement. Here it is about time to call it a night.I cannot tell you what I have accomplished since I got back from Fishers.

 I sent “Reunion” off to Riddlebird. I admit not having much faith in this story – it serves a purpose in the whole, but alone it seems very slight. This magazine noted its interest in George Saunders, E.C. Osondu, and Souvankham Thammavongsa. I know I am not Saunders; very much not that brilliant. The other writers I did not know, so went looking.

I found on Brittle Paper E. C. Osondu's Neighbors (A Quarantine-Themed Fiction). Very nice, sly even in its payoff. This is probably why I picked on “Reunion”. It is very short, go read it.

As for Souvankham Thammavongsa:

Interesting things said about writing by an interesting writer.

From Riddlebird itself I read Playlist of Noise by Joseph Hope. Yeah, I probably should have let go this submission. Lovely, uplifting, hopeful. Also, I read “Middlefield” by Paul Lamar. Smoother edges than my stuff, but still a bit of rough – a suicide and drunks. This also helped me make my choice.

I dropped into Fiction, too. Not sure what to submit after reading IQ Test by Marc Palmieri and Lucky's by Katie Edkins Milligan; especially the latter. I do prefer the latter. Would that I were younger, maybe I could do something that good. All I can think to submit is “Between Dying and Death” (yeah, I am finally switching the words around for title.)

I was to have all this done hours ago. There was the nap, then the walk down to McClure's for supplies, then a few crashes. Oh, yeah, I fiddled with MW's brochure for about an hour to no success. 

Then was The Pope's Astronomer on C-Span2's BookTV with many interesting things to say about religion, science, and story-telling.

“Blue Eyes Flashing Doom” got a rejection:

Thank you for submitting to Poor Ezra's Almanac. 

I regret to inform you that we will not be accepting your submission.

We enjoyed reading your story, but it does not fit with our publication. 

Best wishes and keep writing!

Joe 

--

Joe DeBritz 

Editor

I do not fit in, again.

Our Story

Poor Ezra’s Almanac was born out of necessity. Founder and editor Joe DeBritz wanted a place to display his own writing as well the work of artists and writers working outside of the mainstream.

It seemed worth the try.

By accident, I found 1,001 Novels: A Library of America, which led me to the page about the Midwest and this:

In Indiana, one fall night I spent in a Super8 Motel in LaGrange where my dog and I were the sole females; about fifty men lived there, waiting for assignments to drive new UPS trucks to locales around the country, returning with their single bags on Greyhound. The Bright Forever and Double Wide in Fort Wayne came to mind. The Book of CarolSue is set in Centerville, and The Kindest Lie in Anderson. Jessamyn West’s The Massacre at Fall Creek reminds us that small towns were carved by violence. 

Huh? Someone has set a novel in Anderson? (actually, there are two novels set in Madison County). I guess I need to read The Kindest Lie: A Novel (Paperback).

 I knew of The Waitresses, never followed them (I only learned of the singer's demise from reading Pitchfork's Wasn’t Tomorrow Wonderful?, but i knew enough to read the article. Therein, I ran across the following (my emphasis):

Wasn’t Tomorrow Wonderful? is a study in post-punk “hypernormalism,” as Butler put it in an interview with Rolling Stone at the time of its release. “It’s like a photorealistic painting of the reflection of a street in a hubcap,” he said. Reporter David Fricke wrote that Butler “positively reeks of normal,” and that Donahue “is so normal, she recently opened a bank account in New York and is still waiting for her free electric percolator.” Butler’s songwriting wasn’t interested in abstract pretensions either. Rather than writing a breakup song bloated with metaphor, he’d sketch scenes of a couple having a front seat spat over driving directions. Sometimes, he blamed this chronic relatability on being Midwestern.

 As I wrote KH, is this a problem I have, too - this reversion to normality? We do have a rather strange normal around here (Muncie woman threatens to blind landlord with pen due to apartment being too hot: court docs and Indiana Woman Steals Car For Gentlemen’s Club Job Interview

And there I leave you with this musical advice:

sch