Figuratively, not literally. I don’t even have a sister. In fact, I’m an only child which explains a lot. But I recently figuratively kissed my sister. I have had a short story published. Yes, you will be able to read it. Be patient and read on. No, it is not a story about kissing my sister.
Before I explain why this momentous publication announcement is tantamount to kissing a sister I don’t have, I want to tell you about a guy I run into from time to time. He’s a husband of another Democratic Precinct Committeeperson, and he gets dragged to some political functions I attend. If I speak with him, invariably he will tell me at some point in the conversation, “I’ve been published over 50 times.” That sounded pretty darn impressive to me, until he told me that those are all letters to the editors of newspapers. Does that count? I guess it is being published. It’s not like me self-publishing this drivel almost daily. Someone read his letters and deemed them sufficiently smartish and grammarly (unlike some blog posts we know that are liberally peppered with invented new words) to publish them. Nobody would read my nonsense and publish it … until they did. Ha!
So how is my writing being published like kissing my imaginary sister? I paid for it. I didn’t pay for kissing my sister (although maybe I would pay to kiss your sister), but I paid to have my story published. I’m a writing john cruising the mean streets of Word Processing, USA looking for publishing whores.
Before you think I am a total loser (what was that? too late you say?), I paid to have my writing professionally critiqued. Along with the critique, my story gets published. If that isn’t a sister kiss, I don’t know what is.
I needed to know if I could write to a prompt rather than my typical rambling jeremiad normally emanating from this blog. If I could, then maybe I could do more writing for others for maybe some cash so I could afford to pay to kiss your sister. I’m not sure why I keep going back to that except maybe that your sister is HOT!
So I entered a writing contest to see if I could write to a prompt and if the resulting story was any good. It turns out that I was able to answer both questions myself. I didn’t need a professional critique. Yes, I could write to a prompt, but I didn’t necessarily enjoy it. It was similar to my experience 5 years or so ago when I was hired to write fantasy football analysis for a website. I hated their strict format and rules like “i before e except after c.” It sucked. I quit almost as quickly as I was hired. If I wanted to do something I hated, I would look through old family pictures and watch my hairline recede through the years.
I can also report that the story was mediocre at best, at least in my opinion. I will share the professional opinion with you once I receive it. My story was not side-splittingly hilarious like this blog, but somewhat serious, albeit with a sappy ending. I was limited to 1500 words, so all of my many references to Donald Trump being a dick had to be cut for the sake of brevity. Nuts!
Alright, time for the story. Are you on the edge of your seat? Are you quivering with anticipation? Do you find yourself somewhat aroused? I certainly hope not. If you were, I would be as ashamed to have you as a reader of this blog as you are ashamed to be reading it.
Anyway, the story was supposed to be about someone who hit the skids due to poor choices or bad luck, and their ultimate redemption. That sounds like a typical work day for me, except for that redemption part. My story is about a golfer. Talk about bad choices.
I think you can vote for my story for the Reader’s Choice award. Don’t, not that you would, and after all I’ve done for you. I think they want all the writers to get their family and friends to vote on their website. I refuse to play that game. I choose to lose with grace. Grace’s story was terrible. Not a chance of winning.