Jay Royston's Blog, page 5

Jay's Big BOoTy List (w intro) #1

The Big BOoty List - Books Ogled over The Year
Classic Ogling...
I'm noticing that as the years go by they are doing so with increasing speed. I can't say 2018 will go down in history as my favourite year, especially the last couple months. December was a rotating 'flu-enza' in our house with myself being the lone victor in staying healthy throughout. Career choices, conflicts, criticisms, children... 2018 had it all.

Of course, there was so much stuff I could get angry about outside of my own small life. It was embarrassing the lengths people went to on social media went to demean or debase whoever they didn't vote for, as if our leaders were somehow appointed for life while hundreds of miles up in the air, there is a small glimpse of what our future could be if we only focused on what is good about ourselves instead of what is bad about our neighbours.

I don't know how people can live surrounded by so much negativity in their lives and as such, I'm again trying to limit mine.

Gratefully, amidst that chaos and background of social-loathing, I did manage to finish my 3rd book called Karmageddon. Thanks to everyone who has supported me by purchasing a copy. If you haven't,you can find it here.

I'm fully aware it isn't for everyone and many people may not like it; many may take offense to it. That's okay I guess... everyone has a right to their opinion, despite what others might think. I guess it comes to how offended you are. It's not meant to offend, it's a book. Books are meant to distract you from the world, to provide an escape. Maybe if you learn something along the way, all the better.

Right now, I'm taking a break from writing, despite the voice of many writers who insist 'you have to write every day to succeed'. For those who do it for a living, sure. For those who (like me) do it for the pleasure, go at your own pace.

And as of January 1st, my new year's resolution is to keep track of ALL the books I read over the year. I'll provide a brief recap, mostly for my own amusement.

So without further adieu, welcome to Jay's Big BOoTY List.


Book 1

Emotions Explained With Buff Dudes by Andrew Tsyaston



Let's admit that there is a small type of satisfaction when the clerk behind the till at the book store praises your selection. Like somehow, this insider to the book industry has better taste than you and therefore their opinion is valued. That's what happened here. I bought it thanks to a Xmas gift card from some great people who believe in the dreams of book stores.

A brief skimming of the drawings led me to purchase it. This is a great, but short, easy read of cartoons that reflect and see the humour of depression, our definitions of success, coffee addiction and feeling like on some days life is physically waiting beside your bed for you to wake up so it can punch you in the face. Like, literally... that is one of the cartoons.

If you, or anyone you know tends to slide on occasion down Pessimism Mountains, tend to defeat themselves before entering, then this book might help them get back on track, or at least put a smile on their face long enough for them to fight another day.



*I'm not paid to endorse any of these books, the BOoTY(tm) awards are for my own amusement. If you're interested in any of the books I read, please search them out yourself. If you have any recommendations based on these books, please add them to the comments.* 

My meta-Interview w/ Daenon Kaye

Whatever happened to... Jay Roystonby Daenon Kaye
I sat down with Jay Royston to interview him about his upcoming book, Karmageddon. It has been many years since we worked together, publishing a Canadian film magazine in Vancouver. He has aged well, still has all of his hair and while wrinkles are now appearing around his eyes, there is still a sparkle for the unusual I recall from laughs past.

Been a long time.

Sure has. Over a decade at least.

Yeah. Last we talked, you were recovering from kidney cancer.

Yep. A lot more has happened since. Got two dogs. Got a house. Got married, got divorced. Had a kid. Got two more kids. Got married again. Returned to writing.

Let's talk about your book, Karmageddon.

Of course.
...
Let's pretend I know nothing about it. What's it about, at it's core?

Karmageddon is a collection of interlinked stories surrounding four nuclear attacks brought on by the world-wide legalization of marijuana. But at it's core it is a philosophical look at what happens when the tenets of our self-identity are taken away; our faith, our jobs and our bank accounts.

You call this a sequel of sorts to your previous novel, Enter A Fistful of Marijuana. Will your readers need to know that story before reading this one? 

Not at all. While it would help my bank account, Enter a Fistful isn't necessary reading to enjoy Karmageddon. Enter A Fistful introduced some of the characters you will also see in Karmageddon and established the birth of Karmajuana, a genetically-modified strain of cannabis which is the accepted drug of choice in Karmageddon.

Your books have a certain theme. For example your first book was Stoner, Unincorporated. 

Yes, but that was the name of the town my characters were in. I grew up in Prince George and outside of the city there is a small community named Stoner. I often wondered about what type of people would live in a town named Stoner and so, after spending some time in Nelson, I incorporated some of the people and stories I heard there into the novel.

Let's get back to Karmageddon; you hypothesize that the end of the world comes about because marijuana is legalized. It seems like quite a stretch to go from smoking pot to nuclear apocalypse. 

But is it? Give me an unusual yet believable story any day. The premise of Karmageddon may be absurd, but I hope it is believable.
Some of my favourite books are this way. Take Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, Douglas Adams and his Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Jasper Fforde and his Thursday Next series. They have unbelievable premises but yet are able to strike a core between humour and truth with some readers. I hope to do that with Karmageddon.

Why did you choose to make it a series of short stories instead of the usual linear route?

There were many reasons. In the original Ghostbusters, when the Staypuft Marshmallow Man came to destroy the world, there was a typical crowd reaction shot. I recall thinking 'wow, those people will have such an amazing story when they get home.' Imagine trying to explain to anyone you saw a 100 foot marshmallow man? I wanted to do that, write of people who aren't necessarily part of the larger story.

I also wanted to make a book which is easy to jump in at any point. You don't really need to start on page 1 with Karmageddon. You could jump chapter to chapter and still get the main points of the story. It's a book where you can go at your own speed, where you don't need to remember what happened previously to finish the book.


Do you prefer e-book or traditional publishing?

Traditional all the way. I've tried e-books but it's just not the same. Books are more tangible, have that amazing tactile and sensual sensation when you are holding one. You don't get that from an e-reader. Plus I think a bookshelf is an amazing thing to have in your life. I have books scattered around the house, so I'm not dependent on just one e-reader. We spend enough time on our screens and the last thing I want to do is stare at another one doing something I enjoy.

Thoughts on self-publishing?

Like everything else, there's a good and bad side to self-publishing. It's become very accessible. A writer controls their own destiny, their own marketing. On the bad side, the marketing takes away from the writing. It provides instant gratification for a lot of beginning writers who may not respect the process and dilutes the waters of better-written books out there.

Good books can't be written in a week or a month. Stoner, Unincorporated took over a decade for me to feel it was good enough to publish. Enter A Fistful was over five years, Karmageddon, three. So the good news is I'm getting better but I couldn't have done it without the option of self-publishing.

 What's next? 

 I'm following up on some of the characters introduced in the world after Karmageddon, to see how they have changed. I also have three other novels in various stages of completion that are more serious in nature. Yet for the most part, I'm going to take it one day at a time.

The Joys and Pains of Self-Evaluations

We've all done a personality test of some sort; 'which superhero are you?' 'what type of pie best represents you?' 'If you were a car, you would be a what?'. Sure, they're funny and for a brief moment we might wonder what our life would have been like if we actually were Ross or Rachel from Friends. But for every goofy personality test, there are the more serious ones; the ones psychologists and scientists put together through data collection, analysis and accepted hypotheses.

They aren't necessarily fun. They allow you to reflect better on who you are as a person, why you might not feel like you fit in with the general populace. For some, they are epiphanies; 'Oh, that totally explains why I like spontaneous acts of expression and shutting myself out from the rest of the world'. I've done a few of them in my time but I'm at an age of 'tell me something I don't know'.

First, disclaimer; According the Mayers-Briggs Personality profile, I'm an INFP. You can be one of 16 different letter combinations and for most people (like myself) I don't really investigate many of the other combinations because, well, they're not me. I did the MP test in my first year of college, in  a room full of budding accountants. I was the round hole trying to fit into the square peg in that class, which made complete sense at the time.

I did it again twenty years later thinking I've had a lot of experiences since my first year of college. I've loved and lost, hired and fired, tried and failed, tried and succeeded. I've met hundreds of new people so all of that experience must have changed me somewhat right?

Nope, still an INFP.

I means introverted, I feel better by myself than with a crowd.
N means iNtuitive, which means I mostly go with my gut instinct as opposed to rational deductions.
F means Feeling, which means I am guided by my principles; if I agree with it, I'll do it.
P means Perceiving; I'm an idealist, I believe the best in everyone.

By no means is that a complete definition; for we are all only parts of a whole. But those are some of the basic ingredients which make up myself.

Now, I just did another test; the via assessment test, which is also free to do online. It measures those characteristics/values which dominate your personality; there's around 24 of them - too many to list.

I value honesty above all else. I also enjoy humour, creative thinking, and learning new things.

Sounds great, right? Nothing too surprising there. But when it came to my weakest strengths, you know what lays at the bottom of this idealistic soul?

Hope and gratitude.

That's a pretty big kick in the nuts and hard to rationalize with my strengths. How can I appreciate honesty yet have so little hope? How is I love to learn new things but have so little gratitude to the world I'm learning about?

So that's what I'm dealing with today; all because I took an assessment which tells me what science has determined by a series of 120 questions what I truly think of myself.

Does my humour come from my sense of hopelessness?

In Other News

An old film friend of mine reached out and said he'd been writing something. I offered to read it.

It was some of his own therapy regarding his love life of years past.

It wasn't anything special. But then he linked me to his own blog and was blown away. I told him so. It was original, had a unique voice, etc etc. I told him this was a book waiting right there. He writes short and simple, with great imagery. I don't know if it is because I know him or if his writing is that good but I really relate and/or get frustrated with the protagonist's views.

Here it is.

He thanked me for my thoughts but wants to write of a different girl right now.

I'm a bit envious of his writing style but remind myself we are all different. I think his story could be more successful than mine ever would be, but then again - two completely different ball parks.

He writes kind of like this;

I'm listening to Creep by Radiohead right now. The dogs are laying on the couch, one is licking itself. I have to bathe them today, if for no other reason than to delay other mini-projects.

Artistic Therapy Part 5 Cancer

So, having cancer really puts a stop to things.

But it doesn't, life goes on.

I have a good doctor who is able to schedule me for a kidney removal in one month's time. I have my parents fly out to join me for the big day. They are divorced and remarried but they both come out and everything is weird again. I think they are staying in my nice landlord's place while I am in the hospital. I don't recollect much of this time.

I do remember, and this part still messes with me, for the weeks before the operation I was given a sieve to pee through; the thought being I'd pee out any kidney stones that were in my uretha. I did that every day until I had to go to the hospital.

The night before I was given 2 liters of electrolites to drink; that's basically a super-cleanse and by the end of the evening, it was going in me as a liquid and coming out as a liquid. My insides had never been so cleansed. All this was so there was plenty of room for them to do their digging around in there as they cut out my kidney.

So there I am, in my johnny, getting ready to go on the gurney which would lead me into the Operating Room. I go to have one last pee. I no longer have that sieve after all, what's the point, right?

So as I flush I notice this little turquoise tip-of-a-pencil thing going down the toilet. Or did I?

I get on the gurney, say nothing. I go into the operating room and it's lights out.

I recall waking up, or maybe this was from the first operation, and lifting myself over to the stretcher. I then pass out again. Next thing I remember is waking up with a young nurse over top of me. It's all foggy for a bit here - needless to say, the movie is the last thing on my mind.

I spend a few days in the hospital. When I'm able I fly home with my Mom to BC and convaless at home in her basement, my old room from my twenties. I listen to a lot of Bif Naked, hiding down there doing ... nothing I remember.

I hear somehow my ex-partner's sister also has a cancerous brain tumour. There's no contact there.

Facing Facts

I was angry at her. I was so angry at her.

I was tired. We were tired. I left a note saying we were going for pizza. Call me. Yes, I get she felt excluded. Yes, I was part of making her feel excluded. I didn't want her there. I wanted her studying on movie-making, learning the business side, figuring out how to enter film festivals, doing producer-type stuff.

I didn't want our days spent discussing shots, her swishy-snow pants swishing, the inevitable cutting remarks that I felt would be directed her way by X. I could visualize his scorn spreading to the others, making her the omega wolf, the one picked on, despite it was her drive that brought all of us together.

I felt I was protecting her.

I was wrong to do that.

I wanted to be entirely in control, to not have to argue with her about what to do, defend shots, scenes, lines. To avoid another discussion where she tells me we need to have a dream sequence with Y because she has two friends willing to go topless in a car wash and boobs sell movies.

I was so angry. I was angry at Sound Guy coming in and pointing out all the holes in the ship - holes I knew about and was the reason I called him.

I was angry this dream, making a movie, wasn't fun. I was angry my friend, the guy I trusted to shoot the movie, fucked off on me. I was angry I felt pushed into doing this, that there was no way to go but forward, ever since she said we had an investor.

I felt so alone, nobody to turn to to complain we weren't taking log notes. In the back of my mind, I knew every day meant another tape I would have to go through later, take by take, to figure out which was best.

I wasn't staring down the camera. I was angry that every day was such a complete tiring mess where I wondered what exactly I was shooting here. I was angry she said our relationship was over once the movie ended. I was doing this for us, I told myself.

And if there was no 'us', what was the point of anything? Being dumped on any day is never the best. It was only a slight drop below being stranded at the alter.

I was angry when she told me we were through. I said fine but we could we finish the movie first. We finished, hooked up for one more night and then I was angry she expected me to continue to fly back and forth to edit the movie, knowing the relationship ended.

I was angry I didn't get a choice in the editor - not even a fucking demo reel from the guy. We already got burned for $800 by the 'FX guy' for a shit totem grade school kids could have done in 20 minutes and a fake head so realistic I had to shoot it mostly from the back. Then there was my original DP, then there was the new DP who left town with one master tape still in his possession.

And now she was saying I wouldn't get a choice in who was editing this fucking mess? Were they aware we had no log sheets? Was he going to go through 18 hours of tapes for free?

So she kicked me off my movie. I was furious. She even got the investors to all sign something saying I was fired. I still have it. Along with a ream of angry letters sent over the next few months.

I was angry that I loved her, agreed to do this movie because of her, that she made me decide between the movie or her in the middle of filming.


I hated her. I hated her so much I moved across Canada. I hated her so much I sent her the masters after making my own copies and told her to go ahead. I hated her so much I had to ask her cancer-fighting sister if she was seeing someone else as she was recuperating in a hospital bed. I hated her so much I spent $1500 on a camera just so I could edit it myself. I hated her so much, I learned to edit. I
hated her so much I would call her business phone from 3000 miles away in the middle of the night just so I could listen to the sound of her voice on her messaging machine. I hated her so much I never left a message.

I hated her so much I kept all her letters, a dying art, the angry letter - all capital letters, hand-written. I still have them, that's how much I hated her. I have pictures of her in my memory chest, from happier days of course, when I loved her and thought she loved me back. She was as old then as my wife is turning now.

(... that made me pause).

I hated her so much I yelled Happy Birthday to her when I saw her on the street five years later. I hated her so much I tried to say Merry Christmas to her when I saw her selling something in a department store. I hated her so much I left chocolates on her car door that night. She knew they were from me. I hated her when I saw her car beside mine, her staring ahead - either unaware I was right beside her or painfully aware.

I hated her for killing my dream, for no longer being part of my life. I hated her for making me feel like I could do anything and then telling me I couldn't. I hated her for the amount of times she'd blow me, far more times than actual sex. I hated her for pretending to believe in me. I hated her for all her arguments about her 'editor'.

I wanted nothing more than to win her back. I thought if only I edited this whole mess into something, entered it into a few film festivals on our behalf, then maybe she'd see I was doing it all for us. I wanted her to believe in me again. I needed her belief in me.

And when it was gone, so was I.

Life happened. I got cancer. She didn't acknowledge that. I moved back home. Not even a peep. I left, came back, got married, got divorced. Met someone else, and we are still together, two kids now. Happy life, happy wife.

The last time I saw her, and I've googled-creeped her name many times over the years to see where she was to no avail, she was entering a furniture store. I was inside, holding my months old baby daughter in my arms. I turned quickly, kept my back to the door as she entered. When she passed, I exited.

And that was the end of her. Physically.

Yet, she's still inside me. She found people willing to invest $15000 in our vision. It was an amazing, awful, one of a kind experience which will never happen again. For a few months, I was a filmmaker.
For a few years, I tried to recreate that lie, believing in an impossible goal, 3500 miles away from her.

Do I still hate her?

She did her damage.

Do I still hate her?

Did I ever hate her?

Or did I always hate the choice I made.

The Hilarity of Depression

Sometimes, I want to laugh at how depressed I get because I'm pretty good at hiding it. I think most people with depression know how to hide it; they remove themselves emotionally and physically from everyone.

I know that the more productive one is, the less depressed they tend to be; like the act of keeping the mind busy will keep those nagging thoughts at bay.

So here is my morning.

I wake up and get the kids to school. No problem so far, my mind is busy with the kids, we walk, we talk, we say goodbye.

Now I'm in trouble.

But wait, a friend's wife is running for council in our local election. She's off to put up some signs with her 2 other children not yet in school. I'll totally help, for I was busy trying not to think of what
I'm going to do today to avoid being with myself.

That takes about 30 minutes and then I'm back at the house. I have so much I could do so I'm going to take a long shower first to figure out my plan.

Such a long shower.

Here's a list of things I think about that I can/want/should do;

research some lit agents (3)research similar publishing housesupdate my social mediaread and review some homeworkwatch a movie that my wife probably wouldn't want to watchtake out the compostbuy tickets to a bucket list item. go to firehall and work outapply to EI (hours recently cut back)update resumetake the dogs for a walk. Do some editing of KarmageddonDo some writing of anythingclean up spare room for son #1dismantle legos and put on kijijiclean up carportunlock some more characters in Lego Batman 2. 

I go through all this and then decide I will do the last one first. But only until 10am.

I figuratively give my head a shake. I realize that's the least important. What's most important to me? Probably the computer stuff. But then I need to go downstairs, unpack the laptop, log in.
Just the thought of that is overwhelming in this mindset. Let's get dressed first. Make some coffee.

So I broke it down into little goals. And while it might seem to go down 2 flights of stairs may only be a problem if I was morbidly obese (I'm not), it is.

But first I make a coffee. I find the laptop. I go downstairs, clear off my desk. I power it up.

And now I'm here and it's 10am.

Deep breath...

Cracks in the windshield

I'm struggling again but this time I'm more accepting of it. I realize I am struggling. Not just in writing but in all things. The 'do it' part is missing. I'm stuck on 'just'.

I need to hear that song now but the random Internet slot machine will play Lucky for me.

I'm on a roll
I'm on a roll this time
I feel my luck could change

Kill me, Sarah
Kill me again with love
It's gonna be a glorious day

Pull me out of the air crash
Pull me out of the lake
'Cause I'm your superhero
We are standing on the edge

The head of state has called for me by name
But I don't have time for him
It's gonna be a glorious day
I feel my luck could change

Pull me out of the air crash
Pull me out of the lake
'Cause I'm your superhero
We are standing on the edge

We are standing on the edge.


Nice song. 


I guess I should be happy I'm just on the computer. I was standing in the shower, delaying getting out. I have so much to do today. I took a breath. I told myself that today was not going to be hard. I could do it.

Just.

I will sit in front of the computer for an hour. So far it's been 23 minutes, I think.
I still don't know what is wrong with me, I mean, other than that I have depression and I am getting old and I'm confused as to what I should be and everything that comes with being nearer fifty than forty or thirty.
Shit, yesterday I played Lego Batman on my PS3 and then mowed the lawn. Priorities...

I got another thanks but no thanks from a literary agent and I told myself that these rejections hurt less the more you get them. And that's true and also not true at the same time. But I still delay on trying again. It's been six months and no word on Karmageddon. Time to throw it somewhere else.

Yet, here I sits. On one hand, good for me. I'm finally sitting here. Yet, I'm not submitting K anywhere. I'm choosing to write this instead, to question why I'm avoiding and yet also to be the immediate answer as to why I'm avoiding.

Time management. My life sometimes feels like a series of band-aids on top of each other. And I hear stories and I watch stories and realize I'm not as bad off as others. So I should appreciate that. But I still have so much to do. Just do it, jay. Just do it.

I've got a lot to do today.



And now the Internet has given me this sadly timely U2 song that hits home on my Radiohead station: 
Tough, you think you've got the stuff
You're telling me and anyone
You're hard enoughYou don't have to put up a fight
You don't have to always be right
Let me take some of the punches
For you tonightListen to me now
I need to let you know
You don't have to go it aloneAnd it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you when I don't pick up the phone
Sometimes you can't make it on your ownWe fight, all the time
You and I, that's alright
We're the same soul
I don't need, I don't need to hear you say
That if we weren't so alike
You'd like me a whole lot moreListen to me now
I need to let you know
You don't have to go it aloneAnd it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you when I don't pick up the phone
Sometimes you can't make it on your ownSay, say, say
It's been an hour. Baby steps. On to the next thing.Outside. 

Yes, Daughter, there is still a Santa Claus

Late night thoughts on Childhood Beliefs

Note; It’s been nearly 6 weeks since I’ve written anything of substance. The cycle repeats. Inspiration, Dedication, Insecurity, Shame, Confidence. If I’m lucky, sometimes I’m able to replace Shame with some Editing. I shouldn’t feel insecure about what I do, I know it’s good. But I lack validation and the desire to seek out the validation, so I have let my dreams sit for the summer, enjoyed it with my children, for the summers do go fast and they are both starting school this year and my memory is slipping faster than they are growing.
I love my daughter. She’s nine. She told her mom a few days ago that she’s starting to have suspicions about Santa Claus. She didn’t say that directly, she was making an observation. “You know, Santa seems to only have toys that you could also buy in Walmart.”
I’m like… wow. But you, as a parent, have to keep that dream alive, you know? What do you do? Bring down the house of cards that is Santa Claus? She had a friend over for dinner and the conversation turned to the Tooth Fairy and she tells her friend that she got a letter from the Tooth Fairy instead of money one time and you could see her friend deliberating, trying to figure out my daughter’s end game and why she received a letter instead of money (she didn’t want to give up her first tooth but still wanted the money and so left a note under the bed. The Tooth Fairy replied in an appropriate manner of how the Tooth for Cash system works in the future).  
She’s always been this way; another time, years ago she came back from a playdate and says to me, so excited; ‘Guess what Dad? Cassie’s mom just bought a new car and it has a DVD player! And ours has a cup holder!’
I love her naivete. We’re playing the game Clue last week, you know the one where you have to guess who killed Mr. Body and with what and where? She’s looking at the little murder weapons, the revolver, the lead pipe, the rope. She picks up the candlestick and is trying to figure out how you could murder someone with a candlestick. “I guess you could burn them to death.” The thought of bludgeoning anyone never crosses her mind. Yet, a slow flame... that would do it. 

My boy however, he’s a killing machine. For instance, a couple weeks ago, he’s crying out in his sleep, 2 AM. I go in there, lights off, whisper to him gently, I say “What’s wrong son?” and he cries “I can’t kill anybody!”
Now, I don’t know what parent wants to hear that out of their five year old. So all I can think of to say is ‘well, you will just have to start over.’ And that shuts him up, quiet as a mass murderer at Confession Time. He goes back to sleep. Looking forward to the therapy bills over that kid.
But going back to Santa Claus. So my daughter is peeling back the secret. And soon after that will be the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny. And then there’s God. You’d think that won’t be a problem because God gives you nothing tangible. Easter bunny, Tooth Fairy, Santa - all give you something, validating their existence in their young minds. But try explaining God. I mean, she saw through that shit pretty quickly yet there are grown adults, 20-50 years older than me that still believe in stories told to them of an omniscient force that watches them at all times and is responsible for everything yet gives them no presents, money, or Easter Eggs. We have whole cultural systems based on the idea one entity is responsible for everything yet also nothing.
So yes, why shouldn’t she believe in Santa Claus? And why is Santa so fucking lazy he buys everything at Walmart?

WIP Inspiration 3

I encountered the word kismet yesterday and feel it deserves some recognition in the book - currently basing it as a discussion of kismet vs karma. Perhaps between Steele and Ruby. However, that confrontation isn't part of Karmageddon but more on Steele's spin-off - the Book of Steele.

I'd like to return to writing that but if I did I'd never get Karmageddon print-ready in case the traditional publisher rejects it.

Sad I'm already thinking it's going to be rejected - In Michener's the Novel, he insinuates only 3 out of 900 slush-pile books get referred up the chain.

I don't know how this surging of self-published books are affecting that pile - maybe it's less to pick through? I don't know. Either way, a lot online that a writer's yearly income is lucky to break $10,000/yr.

I am thinking of getting out of the self-publish forums, too self-defeating. I read about someone who is making thousands a month, read a sample of their work and think 'are you kidding me?' Most of self-published I've read seems to simply be the slush pile.

But back to editing...