Sweet Rejection

"Dear Cap, 

Thank you for submitting "Phone Call" to The Walrus. Unfortunately, at this time we do not see a place for it in the magazine.

Thank you for your interest in The Walrus, and best of luck publishing your work elsewhere.

Regards,

The Editorial Staff"

That, ladies and gentlemen, would be the contents of my very first rejection letter. From Walrus Fiction. The story in question is a brief window into an average evening for me while in Kandahar, focusing on an uncomfortable phone call made to a significant other. For those of you who've seen Jarhead (and if you haven't, take the time) you may make the parable to that god-awful scene where he attempts to talk to his High School sweetheart on the phone. I always turn my mind back to Taxi Driver, to how Scorsese pans the camera away from Travis Bickle as he talks to last night's date on a pay-phone. There is no agony like that disconnected from personal contact, and something about the disembodying nature of a telephone call can be, in my mind, the hardest ten-minutes of a lifetime with nothing but your voice and awkward silences to fill the void (not to mention incriminating ambient noises).

Anyways, I finally feel like a real writer! Oh, boy!

I remember more than anything thumbing through Stephen King's earlier novels, where his poor and downtrodden characters made ends meet however they could in the midsts of supernatural situations. Specifically the Torrance family in The Shining (my favourite parts of that book being the first 100 pages or so), and King's frequent forewords, after-words, arguments, 'letters from the author', or the body of On Writing, specifically those making reference to his early days as a writer - a long-haired hippie-punk determined to re-write Lord of the Rings and nailing his rejection notices to the wall above his bed. I think largely due to King I've romanticized the struggle of working-class, poor student, artistic types (allowing, perhaps, for my comfort level therein). It may shed light on why I'm almost overjoyed to received a rejection letter. Then again, I've never been comfortable with praise above constructive-criticism. 

"Phone Call" isn't particularly the kind of story that ends on a positive note. Even reading it again (and, alas, editing) makes me want to bare my teeth, smoking old angers out from behind my gums to strike sparks against the air. I'm very comfortable with hurt and angst, and anger - they broil out of that oven-hot period of my life and bring back those kinds of memories. I have happier things to write about now, but it's less simple to find the words. Dark moods, moral blacks, they can be comforting in that way darkness can both be comforting and terrible. Ideally, I would like to post the excerpts and short stories I drum up on a separate page. Hopefully I can figure out how to use Blogger effectively! Within the next few days I plan to write a review for A Place to Bury Strangers' album Exploding Head, and some more books - among them John Vaillant's The Tiger and perhaps some James Clavelle. 

"I will beg my way into your garden,

just to break my way out when it rains"

-John Mayer