The Life of a Camel

Or, A Little Good News. Finally.

“This is the water. And this is the well. Drink full and descend.” Twin Peaks: The Return, Episode 8 - written by David Lynch and Mark Frost

Writers spend a lot of time working on projects that may not make it into the world, and dealing with the anxiety that causes. Will this novel/screenplay/short story/essay find a home? Is publishing a dying industry? Why don’t Americans read anymore? Will this guy stop asking rhetorical questions? Who’s to say! Of course, not everyone has this problem. I doubt Stephen King worries about placing his next manuscript. For the rest of us, though, getting published feels like stumbling alone through a desert, desperate to make the next oasis before dehydration overtakes us and we collapse into the sand, where carrion pick the desiccating flesh from our bones. And lately, those birds have gotten fat.

But there’s water on the horizon.

RHP’s 14th issue

Earlier this year, the fine folks at Rock and a Hard Place asked me why I write. Which got me thinking, and, eventually, writing. The essay their question prompted is featured in their fourteenth (!!!) issue, available here in print and ebook. This marks my fourth appearance in RHP, and I’m still shocked every time someone pays me for my words. The editors there are publishing unapologetically transgressive fiction, like C.W. Blackwell’s new collection, Whatever Kills the Pain. I highly recommend you check them out.

And that’s not all. I’ve got a story in the upcoming combat sports anthology Fighting Words: Brawlers, Bruisers, and Bad Intentions. The cover art and full author list will be revealed next week in New Orleans, where I’m headed for Bouchercon. Which is always a great time.

If you don’t mind, I’m just going to lean against that tree and enjoy the shade, my belly full from this momentary sense of accomplishment. I might even take myself a little nap. Because summer’s over. Editors are returning to work. Opening long-ignored inboxes and cruising novel submissions. I’m heading back out into that desert. The sun’s blazing and my feet are blistered. And this metaphor has run much too long.

Until next time…