Saturday, September 25, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
I know the correct response for the rejected writer is supposed to be "gee, that's the way it goes," or "I'll just have to try harder next time" or "time to become best friends with Margaret Atwood, because God knows, if you don't know a great writer personally you couldn't possibly be one." But the simple fact of the matter is that the finest fiction and the best crafted query packages must come to nothing if they are sent to some unimaginative bourgeois twerp who spends most of his waking hours hunting down the latest celebrity to publish. No, I am a complete failure at glad-handling and networking and all that shit. As the saying goes, "I don't dance, I just sing." I spend my time writing, and yes, I DO look down at writers who spend more time studying self-promotion than literature. If it comes to that, I've written query letters that could not possibly have been better unless I could literally read the minds of those I was sending them to.
Let me recommend, therefor, an article by Darryl Whetter called "Canada's an Urban Nation. Why is Our Literature Still Down on the Farm?" No, it's not about query letters, it just shows disrespect towards the Canlit establishment, and that's all to the good.
You really have to wonder whether the grand panjandrums who decide what gets published in this country have a clue.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Also, don't forget my earlier post here which will tell you what writers in the anthology will be doing their part in the SPANK! blog tour next. There will be six more in the next six days, so be sure to check them out.
And for your viewing pleasure, here is a very attractive woman who is not in the anthology, but who does look like she might be about to get stuck. And if she does, who's to say she won't get a spanking?
Take her ass, for example:
Still walking behind her, I noticed her magnificent skirt-stretching derriere was actually a little large for the rest of her skinny frame. Not fat, but well rounded and very wide-boned -- and very firm. This was not surprising, given that Hank, I knew, could never go for a woman not built to receive a thorough spanking.
It had been a long time since he had given one to me. Yes, doubtless this leather-lapped backside before me was the one that had been reddening under his masterful mitt while my own bottom had been languishing in neglect. I remembered when I used to wear pleated cheerleader skirts -- knowing how much an older woman in a pleated cheerleader skirt provoked him to madness -- and then feigned astonishment when, in some public place but at a moment when nobody was looking, he would hoist the back of it and give me a terrific smack right on the heinie. I would go cross-eyed trying to stifle my yelp of delight and pain, stand there knock-kneed rubbing my ass, while he nonchalantly pretended that absolutely nothing whatsoever had happened.
God, it had been fun. And now he was a bastard. An absolute, fucking bastard. And she, the one the bastard was fucking, she was hot; no doubt about it. I didn't know whether this should make me feel better or worse. And she had good taste, I thought, glancing about the house, no doubt about that either.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
"Your father did business with Hyman Roth,
but your father never trusted Hyman Roth."
It occurred to me one might say the same thing with regard to John Calvin's attitude to God:
John Calvin did business with God,