Contests!

So, I sent out an excerpt from the botany book today, to Glimmer Train, which is a pretty presitigious literary magazine, but what I applied for specifically was 'The Fiction Open,' which actively looks for new writers as opposed to already-published ones. You can check it out at www.glimmertrain.org if you like, by becoming a member (which takes like, two seconds). What's great is that you can do it all via internet, and don't have to deal with annoying mail, SASE (self-addressed-stamped envelopes), manuscript formats, etc...Here's a little portion of what I sent--you can skip it if you want by just scrolling down the block-quote.

Before I could finish comprehending my thoughts on the playwright, Lilly opened my door, grabbed my hand, ran with me, and took my love in the middle of a golden field. It all seems very romantic, this much is true, but the romantic version doesn’t account for the scratches on my knees and dirt stains on Lilly’s dress, or for the kidnapped child sitting in my car, or for the fact that my wife and I were officially criminals. Quite articulate criminals, perhaps, but criminals nonetheless. All these worries disappear amidst an orgasm, but return when the rest of the world creeps back into your own.

Anyway, after that, I typed up a manuscript version of 'Red,' a short story I put together during January. Prof. Chaon had read that and loved it along with another story ('I'm Just Joking'). They're apparently both very Raymond Carver-y. I'm sending it out to the Writers' Forum Short Story Competition, hosted by Writers International Limited. (You can find them at www.writers-forum.org.) I'm very, very lucky that my parents support me on my decision not only to be a writer, but that they have always supported my decision to write. This makes it easier to have to pay entry fees, as long as postage fees are paid all the way to Dorset. I will also leave you a piece of 'Red,' and that will be the last for you. Au revoir.

When I touched the corners of her paper, I thought of the corners of her mouth. I could feel the heat of her thoughts as I traced the pen marks through the paper. But I didn’t unfold the thing.