SPARKLY HAPPINESS PROJECT DAY 5!!

So…It’s the fifth day of The Sparkly Happiness Project.

How’s your week been?

For me, it’s been a week of opposites.

Great days full of huge strides. Jobs done galore. Attitude happy. No sweary words out of my less than ladylike lips. Husband choosing to exercise (we’ve been after him for health reasons for quite a while)

Grumpy days. (for instance this afternoon I went off on a verbal bender and lost it big time with my family. Not so successful a day. Luckily it’s still EARLY days.)

BUT: One of my overriding feelings this week has been one of gratitude.

If you are miserable, stop looking inward, start looking outward. EVERYTHING, and I literally mean everything, is relative.

Yep. There are people whose homes feature on Cribs. They have six cars, holiday abroad constantly,  their clothes closets are bigger than my whole house. People who have more money than sense or taste and couldn’t you just put that to better use than they do?….blah BLAH blah.

There are also children who dig pieces of plastic out of shit infested dumps in India for 12 hours a day, barefoot with no gloves on, just to make enough money to live in a one room shack with a dirt floor and their 17 brothers and sisters sharing the same bed in shifts.

My health isn’t great and it limits me in unpredictable ways. That probably fits some of you as well. But I know several people (more than I care to admit) who have cancer. They are DYING, some of them quite young. What right do I have to complain when I am so blessed?

If most of our waking thoughts are WHY ME? POOR ME? THE WORLD OWES ME XYZ (fill in as you like)…I will guarantee that only one thing will come out of it:

               YOU WILL NEVER BE HAPPY. NOT EVER.

Most of you reading this will be nowhere close to either end of the spectrum. You will be blessed with enough to meet your needs, even if you only manage monthly with one thin dime left over and not much fun between pay days. Some of you will have much more.

But think about it. In all honesty, most of us spend money we don’t have to buy things we don’t need, to impress people we don’t really care about. Many of our stressors are of our own making.

One of the biggest challenges of our generation is to learn how to become

HAPPY WITH WHAT WE HAVE.

Life could be much simpler, our problems halved, if we worried more about what we DO to IMPROVE the lives of others (and NOT necessarily in material matters), and LESS about what we HAVE.

I’m not suggesting in any way that it’s wrong to strive to improve yourself or your lot, in educational & financial terms, because this whole project is about becoming more fulfilled on a personal level. But it’s how we define personal  fulfilment and what we do to achieve that that matters most. 

Right now is the OLDEST you have ever been, and the YOUNGEST you will ever be.

What are you spending your time and energy and life on? Getting  or giving?

William James said:

The greatest discovery of my generation is that a human being can alter his life by altering his attitudes.

HE WAS TALKING ABOUT YOU. (and me)

Stop looking in the mirror and under the microscope, examining every little minute reason you have to be unhappy. Start looking out at the world and thinking about all the positive ripples you could make in the lives of others around you. Start with the people under your roof, in your neighbourhood, start anywhere.

JUST START.

It is my goal to perform one OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE act of service for another person each week. I want this to cover my 4 month project, but I can guarantee something.

It’s just as easy to develop GOOD HABITS as it is bad ones. All it takes is dedication. If you put the same amount of time into it, it’s yours. I expect that at the end of the 4 months I might be addicted to the warm fuzzy feeling that performing service for others can bring.

What are you dedicating your energy to?

Who’s with me? If you need some inspiration, watch the film PAY IT FORWARD. Bring tissues.

So, go forth, multiply.

good works!!!!!…I meant MULTIPLY GOOD WORKS!

now get outta here. go make someone smile.

you'll be glad you did.

SPARKLY HAPPINESS PROJECT DAY ONE!!!!

So…here we are. DAY ONE of   THE SPARKLY  HAPPINESS PROJECT.

(are any of you joining me??? C’mon you know you want to!)

In preparation for today I have done a little soul scratching and self-analysis. I have shortened the lists of things that are driving me crazy about life, myself & the universe, and the list of things that make me happy. And I have a game plan for the next four months.

We’ll have to have a suck it and see approach, I guess. None of this is guaranteed to soak up this festering pit of gloom in my stomach, but as stated in last blog…I AM A PROACTIVE person, so here’s to a gallon of proactive with my slice of cake.

Things that bring the SMILE factor back:

1.      Being organised. This is a sore point for me as I’m into the red zone when it comes to Adult ADHD, and am about as organised as a troupe of drunken monkeys on a day trip to a disco. Hence constant frustration with myself.

2.      Having fun time with my kids & husband & friends.

3.      Attending church & serving other people.

4.      Being a creative person.

5.      Eating healthy & sleeping enough. Exercising when possible (grr…MS!)

I know that seems a short list, but that is what all the nonsense, noise and bother boils down to in its simplest forms. Everything great usually falls into one or more categories of the above points.

 Things that cause gathering storm clouds:  

1.      Disorganisation, clutter, procrastination.

2.      Kids & adults constantly picking at each other, grumbling over nothing.

3.      Overtiredness and or poor health.

4.      Aggravation with other people’s poor (IMO) choices.

5.      Wasting time.

Again, it all boils down to those things in simplest form.

Some of those things I realise I have no control over…which is an issue that I will be working on.

A few things I have done or am started just in the last week:

1.      Put a sock bag on the door knob in the upstairs hall. We never have enough clean MATED socks. It’s that bad that I have an odd sock basket which I’ve nicknamed the Pit of Eternal Despair. It’s full to the top and seething with snakeloads of unmatched socks. Now all dirty socks (& undies) go straight into this new bag and I don’t have to chase them as much. It’s only been about a week, but so far, successful. Small thing, I know, but small things often fix big stressors.

2.      Made a list of all unfinished jobs in the house that are making me crazy, and figured out which ones I can do without help from taller or stronger people. I will systematically whittle at this list over the summer. Starting with stripping the turf on the only remaining  patch of grass in the back yard, so that my son can wheel barrow bucket loads of decorative Yorkshire stones to cover it and we can put pots and a bench on it! No more mowing.

3.      Organised some service opportunities to get me out of the ME ME ME rut I’ve been in.

4.      Booked the dog groomer for our furball of a Border Collie. (less hair =less housework!)

 

So, there we have it. Day One. Only 122 days to go!!

Can I go back to bed yet?

 

Sparkly Happiness Project!

I got punched in the face this past week with a rather unpleasant truth: I AM A BITCH.

Let’s clarify: I am a Bitch on STEDS, riding a flaming motorbike from the gates of hell, flinging dollops of steaming poo and bad attitude in my wake.

My mate Keith, father of 7 and a social worker, calls it Releasing the Beast. And boy have I been letting her out of the cage a lot. Giving in to frustration & anger & venting to such an unproductive level that I can’t reign in back in and I just rile up everyone around me. Kind of like Sully seeing himself scaring Boo on Monsters Inc. Only I've had it on a repeating loop for ages. Not a pretty site.

But I can also be sweetness and light & am considered an optimistic person. I have Wikipedia sized volumes detailing the trials and ordeals I've got thru with a smile on my face and an annoyingly cheerful song in my heart. Somewhere, in the last year or so, that got lost, under an avalanche of crap.

Turning 49 a few weeks ago shook me up a bit. (yes my profile picture is OLD- 3yrs to be precise.) I had one of those boringly typical middle aged OMG moments thinking- do I want to wake up and be THIS person on my 50^th birthday?

The answer was a resounding NO.

So the question became WHY? What the hell has been going on with me?  Inner conflict and a general festering frustration & unhappiness, that’s what. For a long time now I've had on this shiny pink mask of optimism that’s hidden a toxic pond of procrastination, pointless anger and foot stamping.

NO MORE. I am also usually PROACTIVE. That’s where the feelings of conflict have come in. I've been stuck in avoidance, denial and procrastination. 

That = BITCHINESS!!!!

So starting May 1^st I'm on a mission, embarking on a 

SPARKLY HAPPINESS PROJECT!

Not sparkly like team Edward at the beach. Or a disco ball, or Lelly Kelly shoes. More like the sparkle of dew on the grass on a peaceful cool spring morning. Birds chirping. Breeze ruffling the new birth of leaves. Serene. Uplifting.

To do this I've made a list of 20 things: ten that make me happy, ten that make me rage.  I’m changing the focus of my time and attention, pulling things back to a more balanced core. And I'm taking a sabbatical from writing until September. I have one commissioned project to do, then it’s quits. In all this hassle and aggro I’ve put myself in a place where I HATE writing…the thing that I love best, one of the things that defines me. You know you’re out of kilter when you hate the thing you love so much.

So 4 months to do what, then? Stop procrastinating a million things that have festered and niggled at the back of my brain. Address some things that need changing in myself. Spend time with hubs & kids. It'll take some work & I'm gonna blog my progress, be accountable to you all. Come along for the ride OR- even better yet, join me in a SPARKLY HAPPINESS PROJECT of your own.

We can be each other’s cheerleaders. I promise not to fling poo.

Look for me here again on MAY 1^st, DAY ONE! 

Pearls Before Swine

In honour of this  Easter weekend, I thought I post my favourite short piece from my back catalogue.  I was asked in 2011 to write a piece for the lovely Matt Potter at Pure Slush. If you don't know about this goldmine of gorgeousness, they are an Australian based online flash fiction site that also publishes hard copy theme based anthologies.  Go have a sneaky peek at them here:

http://pureslush.webs.com/

Matt asked me to contribute a piece on the theme of Religion, up to 1000 words...I struggled. As many of you know, I'm a Christian, a member of the Mormon church. I didn't want my piece to be preachy. I just wanted it to be good writing. To this day I couldn't tell you where it came from, and it's still my favourite piece.

Happy Easter.

Pearls Before Swine 

          The day had just begun when we found her.  It was barely light; Donnie was herding Baby and me to school. We were dragging our feet, shoulders and ears hunched against the sharp crystal air.  The ground was cold and hard from a late spring thaw; deeper patches of snow still clung despite the warming days.

               “What is it?” Baby whispered, standing well away.

               “It’s an angel,” I whispered back, my fingers poking small wet flakes from her dark hair.

               “That ain’t no angel,” Donnie hissed. “Don’t touch her; you know what Dad says about strangers.”

               “Strangers carry diseases. Strangers can kill us.” Baby recited, sucking her thumb.

               Donnie dropped his school bag in the snow. “Cassie, I’m going to get the horse. We’ll take her up to Old Winston. She might be worth something to him.  Maybe he’ll cut us a break.”

               It didn’t take a genius to know we’d had a bad season last year.  Money was tight, the rent was months overdue. Mother and Dad thought we couldn’t hear when they sat over the kitchen table at night, counting out the pennies and fretting, but we knew.

               Old Winston was our landlord. He had the big farm house and hundreds of lush acres. We paid him four hundred a month for a leaking, wind-rattled shack and twenty acres of the hardest soil in the county. Father ploughed Winston’s land to earn steady money but it wasn’t a lot, so we farmed our bit to make up the difference.

I didn’t like Old Winston.

“Get lost, you skinny little bastards,” he’d grumble, snatching the brown rent envelope from Baby’s hands, swinging at her ankles with his walking stick. He wasn’t very quick and Baby was always off the porch fast, laughing as the wind blew his curses across the fields after us.

On top of that, he never fixed anything on the house, even when the roof fell in over the kitchen. He smelled of sweat and old pipe smoke and dirty socks. And when Father was away at market he’d come round and touch Mother’s hair and find excuses.

               I stamped my cold feet, and blew on my cramping fingers, staring at her as she lay on the hard ground in nothing but a thin dress.  “You can’t do that,” I choked.  “He’ll hurt her, and you know it.”

               Donnie grabbed my wrist hard and twisted. “What I know is mother’s got cancer, we got bills, and she’s going to Old Winston.”

               As soon as Donnie disappeared down the hill, her eyes opened. They were the colour of dewdrops glinting on ferns in the early light.

               “Hello, Angel,” Baby cooed, handing her a boiled sweet.

               “Thank you Baby. I love Lemon Drops.” The Angel’s voice sounded like old church bells ringing on a faraway hill.

               “What’s your name? Are you really an Angel?” I whispered, voice catching in my throat. She was glorious: her eyes, her hair, her skin. They all had a glow that was nothing to do with the frosty air. Every inch was beautiful.

               “I’m whatever you need, Cassie. My name is Pearl. ”

               “Like from the ocean?”

               “Maybe, Cassie. Maybe.”

               She put her arms around the horse’s neck and climbed on, Donnie still too skittish to touch her. I reached up and held her hand as we walked, down the hill, across two fields. Just to make a point.

               Old Winston grinned ear to ear, the first smile I’d ever seen on him. He wrote Donnie a note, signed and dated.

               All debts forgiven.

               Abram Winston.

               Pearl put her slender white hand on his arm and smiled up at him. Underneath he added:

               Plus two months’ rent free.

               Pearl touched his cheek. He crumpled up the note and started over.

               All debts forgiven + three months’ rent free

               Abram Winston.

              

               Pearl never uttered a single word, but her eyes said goodbye in a way that scared me.  My heart shrank watching her beautiful pale hand on his leathery wrist. 

“You can go now children,” Old Winston grunted, shutting the door firm behind us. It was the first time he’d ever addressed us without swearing.

               “But he’ll…”  I stood rooted to the porch.

               “Forget about it, Cassie. Pearl said she’s whatever we need. You told me that yourself.”  He shoved the note under my nose. “What we need is THIS. She can take care of herself.”

               Donnie pulled me off the wooden porch and threw me up onto the horse behind Baby. I cried all the way home. I cried all through dinner, never answering Mother’s questions. I cried at bedtime prayers. Each tear sliced through me. We left her there. We left her with him.

               Sometime that night, a fire started in Old Winston’s house. His bedroom and the side porch blazed, scorching the ground, turning the remaining snow into steaming puddles that iced over into a smooth glassy sheet by morning. But for the smell of smoke, the rest of the house stood firm, as if it never happened.

               The bank manager came a month later. Old Winston had no kin. The whole place, main house and shack, was ours if we’d take over the mortgage payments. Old Winston was paying the bank a hundred less a month than he’d been charging us just for the shack.

               That summer we started rebuilding. With soot smeared fingers, Baby and Donnie unearthed hundreds of tiny glowing pearls from the rubble. I washed them carefully, then put them in a jam jar on the kitchen table, kissing each one before it landed, plink plink plonk, in the bottom of the jar.

Doing Stupid things for the fun of it.

So, I entered an online pitch contest.

 Find it here: http://brenleedrake.blogspot.com/

There are some great agents involved, and a boatload of hard work going into the process behind the scenes.

Right here, in front of the scenes, on centre stage:

Commence: -nail biting.
                    -excessive refreshing of twitter feed.
                   - repeated trawling of other entrants blogs
                     to read their pitches & make myself feel inadequate



My book is already under consideration with a publishing house. I know it's a long involved process. I know it takes a village to raise a child, blah blah blah.... but apparently it takes a whole CONTINENT to say yes before you get a book deal.

I have ADHD. So I am impatient. IMPATIENT, I tell you!!!!

Recently I bit the proverbial bullet and shopped it to a few other people, which I should have done months ago, if I was smarter. All these things are solitary worries, things hidden with the dust bunnies and old birthday cards under my bed while I get on with life.

Doing this pitch contest is a whole different animal. Suddenly I have been sucked into this warm huggy embracing writerly pit of  angst.... we're ALLLLL stressing.

Communally. So it ramps the anxiety up by INFINITY.

Anyways. Here's the pitch. It's probably not half as interesting as this blogpost. Which is a pretty dire attitude to have, I know.

Anyway. have at it.



TITLE: Blessing Hill
GENRE: YA Sci-fi, spec-fic
WORD COUNT: 100k (I know, shut up already)

LOGLINE:

  After militant climate refugees invade their remote island home, Azura and her friends must rise against their religiously fanatical captors before their entire way of life is destroyed.


EXCERPT: 

“Scripture! Repentance! Scripture! Repentance!”  A grating voice screeches over the loudspeaker for the third time today. I barely flick an eyelid. Wiping the sweat from my forehead onto my sleeve, I slowly turn the heat off under the sauce. We never know how long a session will last and I’d rather not add burnt sauce to my list of things to repent for.

Lisa kneels beside me, smiling softly, pleased for the break. I don’t know what she’s accused of, but this morning there was a note on the board saying she was on solitary potato duty for the entire campus. All day. All twelve hours of it. We’ve only been here two hours and her hands are cramping, swollen and red raw. Peeling potatoes for the entire campus is normally a three person, six hour job. When I stand near her it’s hard not to wrinkle my nose, she’s already starting to smell of them; mildew, stale, damp. To help her along, every time our attendant Victory turns her back, one of us produces a peeler from our pockets, skinning a few to add to the pile.

Casting a disapproving eye around the room Victory passes scripture to all the girls kneeling restlessly with us. Every time she reaches towards one of us, her bobbed, dark hair sweeps across her cheek into her eyes. She tucks it behind her ear repeatedly as she bends and straightens, pulling books from the box.

My fingers stray to my own hair, pinned back tightly to my head, as required.

Things What Stop Me Writing 1-2-3...

THINGS WHAT STOP ME WRITING 1-2-3….

OMG screeching in frustration…see the date on this post? Yeah, you guessed it. I totally fell down on the 2x a month blog posting goal fairly early on, now didn’t I??? Not a peep in February.

And it’s not just my blog…it’s writing in general. What the heck is wrecking the process???

What I want to accomplish VS What actually happens:

1.      MILLIONNNNNNNNS of stories in my head bursting to get out, like NOW, immediately, yesterday would have been great, thanks.

               TRUTH: MILLIONNNNNNNNS of ideas duking it out for attention. Also dishes, laundry, children, piles of Border Collie hair. Until am actually getting paid for this ‘writing lark’ I must justify my existence by being a reasonably interested wife & mother & house slave. (read that as I AM SO NOT INTERESTED) (CORRECTION: not interested in house slave bit)

2.      TWO FREE HOURS TO WRITE, YIPPEE, LETS SMASH THAT WORD COUNT, BABY!

               TRUTH: I so have ADHD (really I do, actually). OOOH I never really wrote that yesterday, that’s crap! EDIT EDIT EDIT. The dog barks…..the wind blows….OHHH look! Shiny Twitter..shiny, so shiny…..ARGH! Get to work, Girl!!!  I type like an arthritic rhino with rubber mallets for fingers..smash smash, correct correct correct. Ohhhh, wonder who’s on FB?? Ohhh need to start a load of wash…What was that idea I had for another story yesterday? Hey! Where’d the time go? TWO HOURS??? I only wrote  300 words??? ARGGGGGHHHHH.

3.      YAY, IT’S TIME TO DO A BLOG POST!

               TRUTH:  (wind whistles, tumbleweeds amble past)

What the hell happened to those millions of ideas duking it out in my head? They must have taken the fight outdoors, seen the sunshine and buggered off to the park to sunbathe…

4.      TWO FREE HOURS TO WRITE, YIPPEE, LETS SMASH THAT WORD COUNT, BABY! (Round 2)

               TRUTH: the dog barks.  the  dog barks.  THE BLOODY DOG BARKS. AT ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. when he stops, my body suddenly says…oh, hey. Remember that you have Multiple Sclerosis? Remember that you took some medicine before the dog started barking? Maybe it’s time I made you go to sleep! Right now. and…of course….the dog starts barking again. grrrrrr.

But all these distractions and excuses don’t really matter. I read a quote on Twitter a few days ago that said it all:

           

                                    “A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.”

                                    ~ Franz Kafka.

And so I carry on  writing coz as many of you know, I am already crazier than most people can cope with. And there’s still MILLIONNNNNNNNS of ideas trapped in my head…bwhahaha..... oooh look! Twitter, shiny, shiny Twitter......           

JUGGLING? WHILE RUNNING BACKWARDS???


Today, in my continuing quest to post properly during 2013, I am privileged to share an interview with my fellow writer, Nate Tower. Because I'm lazy & he’s better at it than I am, here’s how he describes himself on his website (http://nathanieltower.wordpress.com/about/) :

               Nathaniel Tower is a writer, teacher, runner, coach and juggler. He is the founding editor of the literary magazine Bartleby Snopes. His short fiction has been published in over 200 online and print journals and has  been nominated for numerous awards. In 2011, Muse ItUp Publishing released his first novel, A Reason to Kill. Several months later, his first novella, Hallways and Handguns, followed. A collection of short fiction tentatively titled Nagging Wives and Foolish Husbands is set to be released through Martian Lit during  2013.

                In November 2012, Nathaniel set a world record by running a mile backwards while juggling in 8 minutes and  22 seconds. The record has been confirmed by The Book of Alternative Records.  Nathaniel currently resides in the Midwest with his wife and daughter. 

Ok, just for the record, Mr. ‘Man of a Thousand Hats’, it is so hard to know where to start with you,  there’s so many things I want to ask. You seem to do just about EVERYTHING!

First, completely unrelated to your writing, tell me about juggling. I spent a summer trying to learn how to but the end result was …I’m hopeless. Really, really, window breakingly hopeless.

Joanna, thank you for having me on your blog. I just started my own not too long ago, and I already know the difficulty of trying to come up with new ideas. Everything's already been done, right? Anyway, to your questions:

I picked up juggling when I was about thirteen. My brother showed me how after he learned how to do it in a high school theatre class. So I did it for a while, learning a few tricks. Then, like all good things, I went quite a few years without practicing. I'd show off every once in a while, but if you can't do many tricks, no one cares after about thirty seconds. It's just the same thing over and over. I've only been really serious about juggling for the last few years. I guess it's one of those things you never forget how to do. Honestly, it's not that hard to learn. It just takes patience and the right method. There are quite a few different ways to learn. Youtube has a ton of great tutorials. Of course Youtube has them. Youtube has everything. I've picked up a lot of tricks from watching those videos. The box pattern, the shower, the penguin, Mills mess, etc. You definitely get better with practice. I just bought five new juggling balls. I just have to learn how to get the fifth one in there.

And that leads me to the next fascinating thing: Juggling while running. BACKWARDS.

Well, I'm a runner. I'm a juggler. Might as well do them at the same time. I'm sure the first person to put peanut butter and jelly together was considered a revolutionary. Maybe even a heretic. And if you can run forward while juggling, might as well try it backwards. Right? Plus, the backwards records are easier than the forward records. At least for me they are. Some people just can't run backwards. They're afraid something is going to jump out and get them. The first time I ran a mile backwards while juggling, I fell several times. I tripped over a goal post that had fallen onto the track. But I got up and finished that mile! Joggling is actually something that's been going on for quite some time. Did you know they have an official Joggling Olympics every year? I hope to attend one of these days.

I guess I need to get on to the main purpose behind this interview, your writing. One thing I admire about you is the fact that you work well in so many different formats: flash fiction, short stories, novellas, novels and even a serialised novel that’s still in progress. Is there one you prefer? Is your writing process different as you approach each one? Do you have a  specific ‘process’ as such?

The process changes daily. I write whenever I can. Sometimes I write on scraps of paper while driving. It's quite dangerous actually. I shouldn't do it. But when I get the idea, I want to get it down even though I know I'll still have the idea later. When you think of writing a story about a boy whose hands are made of oats, the idea doesn't just disappear.

I don't think I have a particular process for any particular format. I just write, write, write. I like to write in big chunks, to get down as much as possible at a time. I rarely outline. Sometimes I'll put down a "here's what happens next" note at the end of a chapter. For short stories, I prefer to write the whole thing in one sitting, then give it a rest for a day or two, then come back and take it apart. The serialized novel might be my favourite to write (hey, why did my Microsoft Word just autocorrect to that crazy British spelling of favorite? It didn't have a problem with my "serialized"). It's such a blast to come up with these crazy cliff-hangers at the end of pretty much every chapter. Gotta keep the readers coming back, right? It's hard to come up with so many twists though. I like writing weird stuff. Things that I'm pretty sure no one else could come up with. That's my favorite thing to write.  

You’re much younger than me (we won’t discuss by how much!) and you seem to have produced a vast amount of work in that time. I can pinpoint the exact moment when I knew I wanted to become a writer, did you have a ‘moment’ like that? When did you start writing?

I've always been interested in writing. When I was six or seven or eight or something like that I had a crappy poem published in one of those stupid anthologies that accepts every poem sent in as long as you promise to buy the book. Of course, being six or seven or eight, I didn't know that. I just thought I was some literary god. So I went on to write a bunch of terrible stories about warlocks and junk like that. And, just like the juggling, I stopped writing for a while, for no reason really. Then I just started doing it again. I guess the moment you're talking about was a discussion with a co-worker about the greatest first lines in literature. I knew they were really only great because of the work that followed (no one would care about "Call me Ishmael" if it was a teen vampire romance novel). But I was motivated to write the best first line ever. Hasn't happened yet. But I haven't stopped trying. Actually, I do have the best opening line ever written, but there's nothing after it right now, so it isn't an opening line. Maybe someday.

Was it a long journey to publication for you? Tell us how that worked:

Like all newbies, I had no idea what I was doing at first. I bought one of those big heavy books and started sending out manuscripts (in manila envelopes!) to all these big time publishers. I was pretty naive back then. Of course, none of them took any of my stuff, and eventually I discovered that there were thousands of internet publications that didn't charge fees or require manila envelopes and SASEs. So I started sending out things through email. I was tired of spending all the money on postal costs anyway. My first ever acceptance was a story called "Hindsight of a Friend." It was picked up by a little blog pub called Darkest Before Dawn, which is still going actually. He, here's a link if you want to read what my writing was like five years ago: http://darknessbefore.blogspot.com/2008/07/hindsight-of-friend-nathaniel-tower.html. I was so proud. My wife and I went out to a fancy dinner. I was a published author! We actually had the dinner plans already. But now there was reason to celebrate and order that extra glass of wine! Magically, another 200 or so acceptances followed. Very few of those were celebrated with fancy dinners. It's a good thing. We'd be broke now. I still get rejected a lot now, of course. Doesn't everyone? But I don't cry for hours like I used to.

What other writers do you admire craftwise? Who do you like to read?

I don't want to waste time reciting the typical canon of famous authors (except Donald Barthelme—I must mention Barthelme!). I'd rather focus on great writers I enjoy who deserve more exposure. Andrew Stancek is great. Susan Tepper. Chris DeWildt. I wish I could name a thousand authors. I hope none of my favourites are offended when I leave them off. Oh, Stephen V Ramey for sure. Everything of his I've read is dynamite. He just came out with a new collection called Glass Animals that I'm looking forward to reading. I love reading short stories. I don't discriminate based on name or reputation. Just give me a good short story.

Let’s talk about Bartelby Snopes, the online Lit magazine you started in 2008. What led you to start it? What do you look for when you choose the pieces you print?

Frustration is what led to the birth of  BS. Too many days waiting for form rejections. I wanted personal feedback. I wanted it in three days. That's the mission of Bartleby Snopes. As far as what we want in our stories, we have a big list of turnoffs on our site. Besides not doing those things, we want to see stories that make us say, "Damn. I wish I had written that."

What has surprised you most about your life so far as a writer?

Two things come to mind. The first is how much I've changed in such a short time. When I look back at stories I wrote five years ago, very few of them seem like things I could write today. Not saying they're bad stories. Just saying I don't think I would have written them. Mostly it's a stylistic thing I guess. But it's not like five years is a long time. It's not like my life is that dramatically different now. I do have a kid now, but I feel like my perspective on the world and whatnot is pretty much the same. So why is my writing so different? Can I blame it on climate change?

The other thing that surprises me is how awesome everyone (almost everyone) in the writing community is. For the most part, there's just so much love and support. With so much competition going on at each individual journal, you'd think writers would be cutthroat, would hide their writing secrets. Nah. Everyone wants to help everyone else. Someone should make a reality television show where a bunch of writers are living together. I think it would be a riot. Or boring as hell.

I read in an authorised bio of Robbie Williams that he's been known to occasionally shut off all the lights in the recording studio and get naked in the sound booth while singing. He says it helps him when he really wants to nail a song. How do you shake things up if you feel stuck or that the writing has become stale?

Besides being naked when I write? I mean, how could anyone write with clothes on? Well, I like to make masks of what I think my characters look like. When the writing gets stale or stuck, I put the mask on and try to act like that character. Surprisingly, I find that most of my characters look exactly like me.

One last question for you. If you could hang out with two famous authors, one alive, one dead, who would you choose and why?

Easy. Dante. He'd take me around hell with him and we'd drink port or something like that. Maybe smoke cigars. I'd teach him how to juggle while we watched the tortured souls. Huggling. It sounds like it's juggling while hugging, but it's actually juggling while you're in hell. Then we'd try to visit with a few famous writers. See which ones are there. Then I'd abandon him and write my own Inferno.  

And alive, alive-o? Definitely James Franco. We would read poetry together at a coffee house and he would be flocked by female admirers who would walk away in disgust and disappointment after hearing his poetry. No one would ask for his autograph. On our way out of the coffee shop, a group of people would recognize me as the world record holder for the backwards joggling mile. After they left, I'd tell James that it's okay. "At least you've got that acting career," I'd say while patting him on the back.