Dayna Ingram's Blog, page 6

Some of the Rejection Notes I've Gotten Lately

From A cappella Zoo:"Thank you for submitting "Benign," but we've decided that A cappella Zoo isn't the best venue for this story."

From Hobart:"Thank you for sending us "Benign". We appreciate the chance to read it. Unfortunately, the piece is not for us. That said, it is a strong piece and I both wish you luck with it and encourage you to submit again."

From The Los Angeles Review:"Thank you for submitting to The Los Angeles Review.  While we have read your work with interest, it does not meet our editorial needs at this time. We appreciate your efforts, and wish you all the best in placing this work elsewhere. "

From Camera Obscura:"Thanks so much for letting us read your work. We do so appreciate your interest in the Camera Obscura Journal and that your chose to entrust your story with us. Unfortunately, this story was not chosen for publication. We wish you much success with your writing."

From my brief semester as a Fourteen Hills staffer, I know the art of typing up the rejection letter is a fine one. In a rejection, you never encourage an author's writing unless you mean it, because when you say, "please submit again," they will submit again. I find each of these rejection notices encouraging in their own way. But goddammit, somebody publish my story because it's short and weird and I don't know what to add or remove to make it more appealing!
P.S. I use Duotrope for all my "trying to be a real writer who actually submits things for publication" needs.P.P.S. Is "gotten" an acceptable term? Or is it like "boughten," which I accidentally say all the time?

There Are No Stupid Questions

The other day, an elderly gentleman asked me to locate an old book for him. He said he was hard of hearing and I didn't want to continue yelling in his ear, so I told him we didn't have it. He then asked me if I could order it, and I said, "No, we're a used bookstore," to which he replied, "I'm not a bookstore! I live down the street, in a house." He was very polite, though.


This is the first image that came up when I typed in, "He lives down the street, in a house."



Awhile ago I overheard this exchange between two young adults:

"I like to read Stephen King, what about you?"
"Oh, I don't read, I write." 

I think any author worth their weight in words will tell you that a fundamental component of being a good writer is being a good reader. In a lot of ways, being a good, attentive, thoughtful reader is more difficult than writing, but the challenge gives you the perspective you need to be a better writer. It's like when you first learn to drive and highway driving is hella daunting (oh no! the California vernacular has invaded my speech!), but then you do it and realize, gee, highway driving is actually so much easier than city driving. I'm not sure which is reading and which is writing, highway or city driving....This analogy has gotten away from me a little here. I would delete it and start over but I never delete anything I write, I just save it in a different file. I have a lot of files saved on my computer titled "Crap."

Year of the Dayna

[image error] Some people's year begins January first. Some people's end December 2012. My year begins on the 24th, when classes start back up.

I seem to live my life as if my entire year were condensed into one month of competing in NaNoWriMo. In the first three months (week one on NaNo time), I get really excited about all the new projects I want to start and all the cool things we will be doing in classes this semester. I generate some new work and many, many lists of further things to generate. By month four (week two), I'm cruising along at a nice clip, confidant and reassuring myself that yes, I can do this writing thing, yes I can do this being-social thing, yes I can poop and eat a sandwich at the same time and not feel too bad about it. Then month six or seven hits (week three). Oh the dark, dark days of summer, where all my buried thoughts of self-loathing spurt up into the sparkly recesses of my brain and start setting fires. In response, I develop a "can't beat 'em, join 'em" mentality and allow the procrastination (which has always been there but in a slightly subdued form) and lethargy to take over my body, mind and sleep schedule. And Chris Baty isn't even here to talk me up! Only once I've completely given in, to the point of disgusting even myself, do I begin to start to commence to initiate to engage in an active role in my own life. Thus, by the final few months (week four) I have bounced back into a caffeinated delirium of optimism and multitasking, finishing projects and creating others, taking the world by the balls as long as it means never leaving my house. I feel accomplished! I feel like an Adult! I feel like sleeping, jesus I am fucking tired. I collapse and wake up three hours after midnight, crying into my worthless hands as I realize I have missed the deadline yet again. Wait, that happens in NaNo time. In Me-time, it's pretty similar except I don't cry. I'm a man, dammit!

The point is, here is a list of projects and other things to which I may try to apply myself this year:

1. Do homework the day it's assigned. Usually, I do all my homework the night before it's due and then I feel really shitty when I'm underprepared in class, and feeling really shitty about something I'm perfectly capable of preventing causes me to blame society and my mother and all these effing delicious drugs for all of my short-comings, and oh look a mouse! Anyway, do your homework, Dayna. It's fun! (Holy shit, I believe you! Now sign over that lease for my beachfront property in Arizona.)

2. Make my dog fat. I will begin with human treats such as donuts and twinkies, and move on to the fatty meats like beef and bacon. Ice cream topped with straight-up lard for desert. Absolutely no moving except to pee and poop, which will be excreted into tubes that run over the balcony and deposit into the neighbor's living room. Two birds, one stone! 

3. Engage online writerly communities. A blog is not enough! I must read other blogs, and make comments, and promote others who in turn can promote me. Because everything, in the end, is about me. And sharks.

4. Devote time/monies to reading more independent/small press/self-published/online-only authors. Most of the big-name and mainstream authors everyone reads today are disappointing. Time to think outside the bookstore. Plus then I can interact with the authors (maybe) and again get that wheel of reciprocal reviews-promotion thing going.

5. Punch a random stranger in the face or stomach. I mean, what would they do? Not talking some huge guy or a junkie or a homeless man with nothing to lose, I mean more like a soccer mom or, better still, her ten-year old child. What would they do? I bet it's cry and run away, maybe pee a little if it's a stomach hit. We shall soon see!

6. Finish dormant writing projects. In the pipeline are: first draft of a novel, a book of short stories set in a Nevada brothel, and a short story about an endless staircase (stolen idea? whose stolen idea?).

7. Experiment with self-publishing. It gets kind of a bad rap, as many people think self-published titles are those that weren't good enough to be chosen by publishers to back in the market. But there are many factors that can lead to rejection from traditional publishing means. I plan to use Amazon's Createspace to publish my Senior Project manuscript. More about this in the coming blogs.

Notice how nowhere on this list is the item Blog More.  Suckers.

(Possible) Return from Hiatus!

Dear Fellows (and Fellowesses),

My third semester of grad school looms ahead, reminding me that I need to start writing again. "BUT WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR ME!?" You scream at your freshly polished toes. Why, dear fellow or fellowess, it means that I may be posting here more often during those prolonged bouts of procrastination from my homework and/or during "personal days." Before you jump for joy, I must warn you that such an activity is ill-advised; it may ruin the fresh coat of Flaming Red 95 on your feetie digits.

Hey look! According to this scientifically accurate program that is never wrong ever, I write like David Foster Wallace. I have never even read that guy! Perhaps I should?

Here are some things to look forward to in this blog:





























Tricked you!




And now, a message from our Corporate Sponsor:



"I like cheese."









What the hell does that have to do with anything!? This place is insane. I don't like this anymore. Get me out of here. I'm calling my lawyer! ....Mommy?

Indefinite Hiatus!

Hey kids!

I'm trying to come up with a fun, pressure-less format for keeping up with this blog that won't leave me (or you) entirely bored and I am failing! I just don't want to do it anymore. So suck it!

However misguided, though, this brief experiment in blogging has at least given me an appreciation for those individuals who manage to blog regularly in both an entertaining and informational fashion. One such person is Amy Campbell, who writes A Librarian's Life in Books, a sort of haven for books-inspired tangents and life observations. I have been known to contribute to her blog, so look for my periodic posts there if you would like.


Thanks for reading! I will be back with a website as soon as I get more stories published (3-5 years?). KISSES!

An Excuse, and a Rant

Hey guys, want to know what full-time grad school combined with full-time work feels like?



(please note, the above photograph has been totally jacked from some other dude's website.)

I have a list of things to do during my summer break, and resuming some kind of normalcy on this blog is about number six, so maybe it will happen?

In the meantime, here is another nonfic one-pager from my class:

What if I fall asleep on BART and someone decides to slam a fistful of their own feces into my face? I am serious. What recourse would I have? I mean, after the vomiting and the crying and the pitiful, pitiful bellowing coupled with frantic get-this-shit-off-me! dance.  There is literally nothing I would be able to do in this situation. Look, I'm not saying it is exactly a phobia, but yes it scares me sometimes. I still fall asleep on the train, but I always sit with my back to a solid surface. Nothing is stopping anyone from coming up in front of me and slamming feces into my face, but somehow, I am not as nervous about this happening.
  
In college, I knew this guy who claimed he would eat a bowl of his own poop for a new car. I don't consider this even physically possible, but I did write a letter to David Letterman proposing he offer my friend a car and tape the waste consumption for a segment on his show. I guess nobody really reads those letters because I never got a response. Now that guy I knew is my roommate and, to my knowledge, has yet to eat his or anyone else's poop, though he does have a new car.
  
This reminds me of the unfortunate time a few years ago when my friends showed me a popular erotic video clip entitled "Two Girls One Cup." I'm not going to describe it for you because I think you already have a fairly accurate mental picture (just tell yourself it's ice cream!). What disturbed me more than the actual video was the fact that these friends who showed it to me had now willingly watched the thing at least twice.
  
There are a fair number of people out there who appreciate the power of the poop.  Consider a recurring theme in the sketch comedy show Upright Citizens Brigade, in which  a home-security device is fashioned out of a piece of poop on the end of a stick. It never fails to intimidate. They took hidden cameras and tried to sell the poo sticks to passersby on the street. It was so effective that no one wanted to get close enough to buy one.
  
All poop doesn't scare me. Bat guano downright fascinates me. I once saw a documentary in which all these bats laid so much guano that entire ecosystems were created. Insects thrived there. When a bat fell off the cave ceiling into the mountain it helped create, it was sucked deep into its frothy maw and devoured by insects and bacteria.
  
See, I respect the poop. If we poop too little, we could die. If we poop too much, we could die. We are born, bloody and silently screaming for air, onto our mother's shit; when we die, we shit ourselves. Everyone has a poop story because poop is really gross and no one wants it in their mouth, unless that's their thing, in which case, look, I don't want to yuck on anyone's yum, I'm just saying, please don't slam poop on me while I'm sleeping on BART. Or, you know, ever.




(I want to write a non-fic book entitled Some of These Things Are Lies, and when Oprah calls me out on the validity of my facts, I will be all, "Umm..." and tap the cover indignantly with my forefinger.)