I wrote this story. It’s probably the best I’ve ever written. Hell—maybe the best I’ll write ever. I sent it out. It got rejected. So I sent it out again.
I had a hard time getting it done. Anxiety froze me.
After submitting things for publication for over fifty years, I’m sick of the tedious frustrating routine.
It doesn’t help that in the 21st century most of my publications have come from editors coming to me. But since the universe refused to make things easy, I find myself with unpublished works piling up.
It also seems that the current generation in the publishing world just doesn’t get a wild ‘n’ wooly counterculture survivor like me. Not to mention the readers who came along post-DaVinci Code / Harry Potter / Twilight / 50 Shades of Grey.
I’ve given up on New York, even though it’s more a state of mind rather than a place these days. I keep having visions of people going to their cubicles every day and hiding under their desks until it’s time to go home . . . They just ain’t going to ever come to their senses. I ain’t never gonna be rich. Boo hoo.
And I’m getting pretty damn old.
Most of my career has been because of lovable weirdos at the fringes who believe in me. Thank Tezcatlipoca for them.
I can’t stop writing. It just happens. Like a bad habit ingrained into the kinks in my twisted brain.What I need is a change of attitude. You thought the six-foot tall Aztec leprechaun was scary? Well, get a load of the new, improved six-foot tall 70 year-old Aztec leprechaun!
My doctor says I could last another 30 years. Wonder what I can do in that time?
No more worrying about being “commercial,” whatever that means. No more wondering if “they” will let me do it–I’m doing it anyway. To hell with the corporate industry and the corrupt civilization it rode in on!
My home has always been the underground, the fringes where outliers do strange things. They're out there. I know. They come looking for me.
And now, I’m looking for them.
At the very least, I’ll feel better for having done what I do best, creative blasphemy, aesthetic terrorism, committing outrages . . .
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