Daniel Clausen's Blog - Posts Tagged "reejecttion"

I just released a free ebook on Issuu.

You can check it out right here:
http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...

Have you ever faced rejection?

How about reejecttion?

This short story / essay collection looks at the challenges of being a writer, the challenges of being a human, and the challenges of being on the other side of a form rejection slip.

We regret to inform you that when you read this short story collection -- you will laugh, you will scream, but mostly you'll wonder how getting reejectted ever felt so good.

What is the book?

The book is a humorous collection of essays and short stories. It’s also free! It’s a great book for anyone who has ever gotten a form rejection letter.

Are you seeking reviews?

Not in particular. If this book was your friend, it would be the kind of friend you found hanging around in a trailer park in a wifebeater, waist-deep in a kiddie pool, drinking a beer on a Tuesday afternoon.

He’s fun to be around for a little bit, just don’t let your friends catch you with him.

What’s the summary/ tag lines:

Have you ever faced rejection?

How about reejecttion?

This short story / essay collection looks at the challenges of being a writer, the challenges of being a human, and the challenges of being on the other side of a form rejection slip.

We regret to inform you that when you read this short story collection you will laugh, you will scream, but mostly you'll wonder how getting reejectted ever felt so good.

Who are you?

I’m the kind of guy Clark Kent ignores. I am humble and hardworking. Adulthood does not come easy to me. I don’t think I’m alone in this…

Also, I write fiction.

Sequel Ideas:

I’d love to do a sequel. But everything depends on getting the right title.

Reejecttion too
Reejecttion: the awakening
Accepttancee?
Re-reejecttion
Inception-Reejecttion (Tag line: Be ready to experience the rejection within the rejection within the rejection)
Reejecttion 8: Die Daniel Die (Tagline: His story was so bad, they sent an assassin out to make sure he never wrote again).
Reejecttion vs. Predator

Top Ten Reasons to Read the Book:

1.You will get rejected- promise!
2.There are good short stories in between rejections
3.The book might take all of 30-40 minutes to read
4.Most stories are only 2 pages
5.It’s an excellent stomach, back, and triceps workout

Sorry I could only come up with five (I.O.U five more reasons)

Ummm…goodbye?

Sure! Don’t forget to check out the book

Here: http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...

Or, if you want a PDF or MOBI file, email me at: lexicalfunk@gmail.com

Dear Mr. Clausen:

First of all, this rejection letter does not reflect on the quality of your work. I realize that this seems a contradiction given that we are supposed to judge based on quality, but no... this rejection...it’s really more about us than you.

Your manuscript is a great guy, and it’s going to find that lucky literary journal someday. You just need to give it more time. I hope we can still be friends.

Any time you want to talk about your feelings, just give us a call.

Always here for you (even though we don’t want to be intimate with your manuscript),

The Editor.

I always leave at least an hour or so earlier than the others. They’ll go on drinking long after I’ve left. Drunk, I start to walk home. Soon I’m doing a little jog. Then I’m walking again. I’m not going to be a drunk, like my father, I say, silently in my head until thoughts break out into words. Now I’m talking to myself. I think about doing a Yoda impression for good measure. The ground beneath my feet is moist and sticky, but I have no recollection of it raining. I think the most logical thing in my head just to prove that I can. Then I rant about how great I am—real megalomaniac stuff. I say one day I’ll write a novel. As soon as I say it outloud, I’m suddenly depressed. Now, I’m alone on the long path that goes along the Catholic high school to my apartment. The cross at the top of the building isn’t menacing or comforting or anything. It’s just there. I bust out with a few karate moves. When I’m about to cry, I try to convince myself that I don’t love this girl I just met a few weeks ago and that any minute now I can fall into my twenty-third year of life like it’s all some big debauch. Drinking, wild sex, and public nudity to top it all off. I stop to write all this down on a little notepad in my pocket, crazy as I am drunk, but not my father in any way, and continue on my way. An hour early, I feel like I’m always getting home late.

Check out this free book!
Reejecttion-Issuu
http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...

I climbed the mountain and found the dragon. Once feared for his power and cunning, he was now nothing more than an old man in chains.

“As long as I’m in chains I can’t hurt my enemies,” he said.

“How do you know your enemies? You have no eyes.”

“I don’t need eyes to tell my enemies. I can decide by listening to their voices.”

“I don’t think so. You need all your senses to tell who your enemies are.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then who am I?”

“You are the person who waits on fences. You think you need all your senses to work before deciding who your enemies are. You wait, and wait, and finally take the weaker side. Then when things turn out badly, you sulk and wander the earth looking for another fence. You are a stranger in your own country. You have wandered so long that even your parents wouldn't recognize you. And here you are on the fence again. You could free me and have the strongest ally who ever walked the earth.”

I left the dragon -- an old man, yet still too cunning and powerful for his own good -- to linger in his chains. I returned to my wandering and tried my best to forget his words.




If you like what you just read, please check out "Reejecttion," a free ebook, available right here: http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...

(From Daniel -- enjoy this guest post by my friend and co-author of the upcoming book ReejectIIon - a number 2)

Finding an idea for a story isn’t too difficult. Finding a really good story idea, however, is harder than a skinhead Rottweiler from Glasgow named Reggie Kray wielding a machete.

Some ideas just come, and as much as they plead with me to be written, they seem unable to evolve beyond that simple germ of an idea. So it is with this short piece entitled Farquhar the Phoenix, which was rejected from the final edit of the upcoming book ReejecttIIon: A Number Two, the sequel to that marvellous writer and all-round good bloke Daniel Clausen’s Reejecttion – which you can read for absolutely free here:

http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...

(Hell, if I can write for a sequel when I had nothing to do with the original, I might make it as a Hollywood script writer yet!)

The short tale of Farquhar the Phoenix may not have made the cut for ReejecttIIon, but as is the habit of that particular breed of birds, it has now risen from the dead…



FARQUHAR THE PHOENIX
by Harry Whitewolf


“Oi mate! Are you a phoenix?” a spotty adolescent yelled aggressively.

“Er… no,” lied Farquhar the phoenix, as he began to quicken his step down the dark side street and ignore the bunch of youngsters who were striding towards him. “I’m a pigeon,” he said, pulling his coat collar up.

“He is!” said one of the youths. “He’s a phoenix all right!” And they began to circle Farquhar.

“Oh, won’t you just leave me alone?” Farquhar shouted. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for an old bird like me to survive in such a depressingly divisive and aggravating modern world of bigotry?”

As Farquhar said those words, one of the kids lunged forwards with a rather large knife. He stuck it deep into Farquhar’s jugular and blood cartoonly spluttered out, as the other kids all jeered and cheered their mate on. The phoenix instantly died and dispersed into ash before WHOOSH! – great flames quickly rose up and Farquhar came back to life; as was the habit of phoenices.

The teenager who had stabbed Farquhar leant in to the last of the flames with a cigarette. “Thanks mate,” he said. “I needed a light.”

“Do you mind?” asked Farquhar, very unhappily. The kids just laughed, shouted and called him names before running off.

“Oh… dear….” sighed Farquhar. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…” It was the fourth time he’d been killed this week and Farquhar was fed up with it. There would always be some joker who would spot that Farquhar was a phoenix and spontaneously decide to murder him. Just for a laugh. There were plenty of YouTube videos showing Farquhar being shot, kicked, drowned, trampled on, decapitated, exploded… and any number of other ways you can kill a bird. All done to just see the phoenix rise from the dead in flames of glory; for damn entertainment. “Why can’t people just leave me alone?” asked Farquhar. “I’m not some goddamn toy!” He was fed up. Indeed, Farquhar was more than fed up. In fact, he was way past clinical depression. Actually, Farquhar the phoenix was completely suicidal.

*

As Farquhar walked down the street, he lit up a cigarette of his own. Some old woman ambled past saying, “You shouldn’t smoke you know! It’s bad for your health.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” replied Farquhar, before crossing the road and disappearing into the corner shop to buy two bottles of whisky and a twelve pack of beer that would accompany his solitary evening alone in his smelly basement flat. Like every night.

Farquhar had had enough of living. He was stuck. Completely trapped. There was no way out.

So if you ever think you’ve had it bad, remember it could be worse. You could be a suicidal phoenix.

This story just got cut from “ReejecttIIon - A number 2.”

Still, writing about politics has got me in the mood to “stump” for my book. I feel like a good stump speech should be like a nascar race -- lots of drinking and people going around in circles. Thus, I submit this reejectted story for all the middle class Americans who just want politicians to be sensible again -- to solve their problems the way our forefathers did, by sitting on top of monster trucks with javelins and trying to knock each other off or impale each other. It’s like ol’ Frank used to say, you can’t make meatballs without squeezing a bull’s testicles, and wherever you find an omelet, it’s like trying to walk on eggshells.

Well, I’m not a man trying to walk on eggshells. But I do have the courage to squeeze a bull’s ball if it means getting some shit done, especially a fine meatball spaghetti. Which is exactly what this country is about -- making shit! Omelets, meatballs, or synthetic bull’s testicles (none of mine are imported from China!)

What it all comes down to is this -- you should read the first “Reejecttion” book here: http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t... or here: https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905... -- if you love your country or you have nothing to do with the next hour of your life.

As for the sequel -- “ReejecttIIon - a number 2” for president 2016!





The Untimely Demise of Frank Hand
(a political memoir by Frank Hand’s Mustache)

Long after the mustache had gone out of fashion, he had a big, thick, dirty one.

Legend had it that his mustache was cloned from hair plucked from Tom Selleck’s mustache which had been genetically modified to give off the impression of ruggedness.

He wore T-shirts and jeans. He prefaced everything with, “I don’t want to make a political statement, but...”

He made jokes that weren’t quite jokes. And he talked with an accent that made him sound slightly Mexican. But he wasn’t Mexican. Not one bit.

He was dirty. None of his advisers knew how he got that coat of dirt. His critics claimed that he would coat himself with special dirt imported from the Egyptian desert. They also claimed that he was an East Coast liberal that had been coached to act the way he did by a Berkeley-educated anthropologist.

Frank Hand, when accused of these things by a conservative radio host, stroked his mustache and said, “The East Coast. I have a cousin up there who wants to get into the radio business. You oughta help a feller out.”

Not sure what Frank was talking about, the radio host stopped in his tracks a full five seconds. Five seconds of dead air. Legend has it that the radio host’s head exploded right there on the spot.

Legend also has it that when Frank Hand saw the mess of the exploded head, he said, “Somebody oughta do something about that.”

Confused about how to handle Frank Hand, the conservatives employed two candidates, the smartest conservative they could find, and an oil baron who employed the slogan, “I’ll drill that economy so hard, she’ll scream jobs!”

To which Frank Hand replied, “Sure, you guys are gonna do that, because that’s what you do. But what about the other guys?”

And finally, after ten years in office, when people had a general sense that things were improving for some at least, a new conservative opponent finally said on national television, “Frank Hand is a demon.”

And then, Frank finally made his first political faux pas when he said, not really paying attention to what had been said, “Somebody ought to do something about that.”

That was the end of Frank.

Legend has it his mustache moved on and flourished as a city councilman somewhere in Arkansas.

[This is a guest post by Harry Whitewolf, my co-author for ReejectIIon - Number 2.]

The good thing about cutting pieces from ReejecttIIon: A Number Two, my upcoming collaborative book with author Daniel Clausen, is that you get to read them here for free. Here’s the latest short story.

And remember you can read Clausen’s first Reejecttion book [http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...] or [https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905...] for free! It’s short and brilliant, so what are you waiting for?

Harry Whitewolf.




CLONE CO.
by Harry Whitewolf


The receptionist was Daisy Duke from The Dukes of Hazzard. “Welcome to Clone Co.” she said. “How may I help?”

“Hello, yes, I’ve been given a gift voucher I’d like to redeem please.”

“Is this your first time shopping at Clone Co.?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, I’ll get one of our assistants to go through the options we offer. If you’d like to follow Mr. T, he’ll take you to see Dave.”

Mr. T then appeared and said abruptly, “Follow me, fool!” and the customer followed the gold-draped man into a small office where Dave was sitting behind a large desk. “Please, take a seat, Mr…?”

“Dibbit.”

Mr. T walked out with the sound of clunking jewellery as Mr. Dibbit sat down. Dave started laying out all manner of brochures on the desk, whilst saying, “Now, what are you looking for? Do you know what sort of clone you would like?”
“No- this is all new to me. I have a voucher for eight million credit chips, so if you could just show me what you have within that price range, that would be great.”

“Certainly Mr. Dibbit. Well, we offer lots of different types of clones here at Clone Co. Would you perhaps be interested in cloning an old pet? A dog or a canary, for instance?”

“No, I’ve never had any pets,” replied Mr. Dibbit.

“How about a dinosaur? A pterodactyl would be within your price range.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What about a dodo?”

“That’s a no no."

“Well there are plenty of human options as well. Would you be interested in cloning a dead parent or an ex-girlfriend? Or someone you once had a crush on? We can, of course, make any personality alterations that you may require.”

“No, I don’t think I want to clone anyone personal to me.”

“Would you like to clone yourself? Lots of people like this option -especially men. I mean, just think -finally you could know what it’s like to give yourself a blowjob!”

“Hm… Not for me, no.”

“O.K, so maybe you’d like to clone a celebrity?”

“Yeah… I think that sounds good.”

“Excellent! One of our most popular choices!” Dave began rummaging through the catalogues on the desk. “Have you got anyone in mind?”

“Not really. It just depends on who I can afford.”

“Certainly. Well, I’m afraid our A-Class Celeb Clones will be out of your league, but there are still plenty of other options. Let’s see…” Dave picked up a brochure entitled ‘Famous Fucks’ and said, “Could I interest you in a celebrity shag? For eight million, you could have the weather girl from Channel 87.”

Mr. Dibbit looked a little embarrassed. “Um, no- I don’t think that’s really my style,” he said.

“O.K. No problem. How about celebrities you’d like to punch in the face?” Dave replied, picking up another catalogue and flicking through it. “Our special offer at the moment is Justin Bieber. That’ll only cost you six million. What do you say? Would you like to have a Bieber clone you can use as a punch bag on a daily basis? I’ve heard it does wonders for releasing tension.”

“No, I don’t think so. Could I buy George W Bush? I’ve always fancied giving him a bloody nose.”

“Hmmm… I’m afraid he’s a little out of your price range. How about Ben Affleck?”

“Mm, no.”

“Charlie Sheen?”

“Nah. Haven’t you got anyone more recent?”

Dave replied, “I’m afraid that for your price range, it’s mostly people from over a century ago. Hey- how about Queen Elizabeth II? I always fancied punching her in the face myself.”

Mr. Dibbit looked like he was losing interest. “I’m not sure I really want to punch anyone in the face actually,” he said.

Dave started rummaging through more brochures, saying, “No problem, no problem…. Let’s see- what else have we got? How about someone more historic? Would you like Napoleon to do your dishes for you? Attila the Hun to do your laundry? Jane Austen to wipe your ass?”

Mr. Dibbit carefully considered these options. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to get a clone who could do some household chores for me, but I’m not too keen on those you mentioned. Who else could I get? I was hoping for someone a little more glamorous. Elvis, perhaps.”

“Oh, Mr. Dibbit, I’m sorry, but Elvis Presley costs a lot more than eight million, and anyway, he’s in our Elite Class of clones. He’s not one we sell to the general public I’m afraid. No, if you want to see Elvis, you’ll have to go to one of the concerts. I believe there are fifteen happening tonight…. Let’s see… Yes… Here we are… There are four Early Elvis gigs and eleven Fat Elvis ones tonight.”

“Oh, right.”

“Look, I’m sure we can find you someone just as satisfactory to take home with you. Let’s see…” Dave picked up a list of celebs you could buy for under ten million. “What about Keira Knightly? She’s very cheap.”

“Nah,” replied Mr. Dibbit.

“Phil Collins?”

Mr. Dibbit shook his head.

“Nietzsche?”

“No.”

“Lemmy? Lassie? Fonzie?”

“Mmm… No… How much did you say Justin Bieber was again?”

“Six million. I could throw in Pol Pot for two mil, if you like.”

“Yeah, go on then. I’ll take a Bieber and a Pol Pot”

“A very wise decision Mr. Dibbit!” said Dave and proceeded to get the paperwork together.

[The following is an excerpt from an extended book review of Lester Goran’s book “Bing Crosby’s Last Song.” The book review is written more like a creative essay / short story than a book review. The review is part of the book "ReejecttIIon - A number 2" and can be purchased on Amazon.com].

A novel about a bunch of ordinary never-do-wellers, scratching around, getting more wrong than right. Many of the scenes take place in bars with characters telling each other stories that expand the universe of the novel.

If I were to write something like this, it would take place in Nagasaki, at Gotsubo. Samantha the English teacher would be trying to teach the owner, Kentaro, Spanish, and people would be telling stories about Sam-the-boxer, how he broke Gavin’s jaw while he was still a learner for reasons that may or may not have had to do with his philandering lifestyle. How Sam eventually lost half of his brain in a surfing accident in California, and how all this came up about a year or two after most people moved away from Nagasaki and then one person returned.

It would go something like that.

But I would never write something like that. Lester Goran always thought there was something sacred about these happenings, the interconnectedness of people and the stories told from person to person. He also believed in universes populated by pubs and bars.

I’ve had alcoholics in my family. I find such places shallow haunts -- as unsacred as Gloria Scone and her New Age religious nonsense. Bars and pubs are for people without imagination. I’m not sure that people actually care about the other people they drink with. They might. There might be sacred happenings in between sips of white wine.

There is a small bar area at Gotsubo, right in front of the booths, where parties of five or more usually sit and wile away their time with talk. The talk is in Japanese, and is of no concern to Lester.

But as soon as he meets Kentaro, the owner/ bartender, it’s like I’ve become a ghost to them. Kentaro and Lester talk on and on into the hours, free cups of sake and shochu for all of Lester’s stories, and though Lester is the one talking most of the time, he finally finds me and tells me, “I can hear him perfectly. Why don’t you speak like that? I can barely hear a word you’re saying. With him everything comes out loud and clear. He could have been Irish!”

“Tell me a story,” he says. “Tell me something that happened at this bar.”

I suppose there are a few. The time I took my brother here. The time, right after I first got here, when one of the new guys was trying to decide whether to stay or whether to leave the country.

“There was this time, I met the ghost of my dead writing teacher…”

But I can tell I’m boring him because he naturally starts to talk to Kentaro again.

The following is an excerpt from an extended book review of Lester Goran’s book “Bing Crosby’s Last Song.” The book review is written more like a creative essay / short story than a book review.

The review is part of my new book -- ReejecttIIon -- A Number 2. You can purchase a copy here: http://www.amazon.com/ReejecttIIon-nu...



I tell Lester as I sit in his bar that Boyce Racklin reminds me of my dad. He couldn’t stop helping people. He was a saint, a folk hero -- but to his family, he was always a more ambiguous character. Too much of a do-gooder to do himself very much good.

Lester sees right through me. “You’re writing this damn slop to avoid writing about your dad, aren’t you?”

And my mom. But that’s not the point.

The story of how Boyce Racklin became the mythologized “Right” Racklin is on page 14 of the book.

“Don’t worry,” I tell Lester, “I won’t give it away. But I can’t help the feeling that this is my dad you’re writing about. One Christmas I find all the toys in my house gone. It turned out that my dad had donated them all to some children who had no gifts for Christmas. The kids got gifts and I got robbed.”

Lester doesn’t seem amused.

Fathers and legacies. Was Boyce Racklin a hero up until the end? Did he jump into the river to save some girl or was it a suicide? That’s the question.

“A million indignities follow the man or woman who gives himself to the poor,” I tell Lester. He still doesn’t seem amused. He also seems unimpressed with the rate of my drinking.

“I thought you were going to write this review essay about me. Here you are talking about yourself.”

“I learned from the best,” I quip and get what has to be, at best, my second or third smile of the night.

“I want to change venues,” I tell him.

“I want to go to Gotsubo in Nagasaki. My old hangout.”

He remains quiet. Who knows if he can even exist in a place beside some conjuring of his old haunts in Oakland. Perhaps there is no place for him where his spirit can rest other than the places he created for himself in his fiction.