An Ode to Νάρκισσος (Narcissus)

William Shakespeare never attained the honor of debuting one of his works in an online literary magazine.  As long as there are no follow-up inquiries, comments or logical thought processes, this statement stands as a blissfully ignorant but impressive fact and/or hallucination.

Many authors may claim that my heralding the acceptance of Jumper for publication in Apparatus Magazine as a huge success is a bit—I don't know—delusional, narcissistic and just plain sad.  I of course dismiss these claims, as they largely originate from published authors and working fiction writers with both commercial and critical acclaim.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat, Ad Nauseam.

The fact that I am the author and blog deity of a [laughably] literary site which contains any mathematically quantifiable visual representation of Miley Cyrus (let alone daring to directly reference She-who-shall-not-be-named-again) is a profound and personal shame for me.  Still, the image and reference are [moderately] related to the crux of this post.  Most importantly though, the mere mention of The Duchess of Soulless Tween Rock ensures [F]ap [Cr]iction's rightful assent to the top of the Google search results heap, which should net me an extra page view or two, so...meh.

Self-loathing and penitent digression complete, I shall continue with the all-important originally intended topic, .i.e., the tawdry relationship between music and writing.

Laureate Moments, i.e., Nominally Less Execrable Poetry

Behold! The first post of the new decade! Notable only because I promised myself that I would have one the first week of 2010 even if it kills me. And let me tell you, success is sickeningly sweet.

Well, I've accomplished all of my New Year's resolutions, how about you?

What follows is a short poem I scribbled about following dreams—penned during a troubling time when I briefly considered giving up pursuit of the writing life.  Subsequently it was published in the June 2003 issue of the (now defunct) Smorgasbord poetry journal (an occurrence that was in no way affected by their choice to publish my material, I swear).

This perfectly demonstrates the old adage that, whenever a door closes, you'll feel a faint draft from an open window somewhere far, far, far away from you.

What A Novel Excerpt - Desperately Seeking Suicide

A writer writes, right? Bullshit. A writer finishes. And doesn't use atrocious puns for titles. Not too often, anyway. Moving on.

Writing, for me, has always been a lot like dating. In both instances you invest time and energy to pursue an unknown end that will either delight or destroy. Sometimes an oddly satisfying combination of the two. The only certainty is that you'll never stumble across anything worthwhile unless you explore every opportunity—even if it seems like nothing at the time.

Short, Hard and Just Six Long

Ernest Hemingway—aside from being an impossibly narcissistic bastard, rampaging alcoholic, chronic womanizer and full-time jackass—was [sigh] a brilliant writer and a master storyteller. His greatest strength just happens to be my greatest weakness—the man could hold his liquor. Alright, not really. Although, scotch for scotch, I'm betting Ernest-o could soundly drink me under the table, and then some.

Unfortunately my digression evidences my originally intended point perfectly.

All alliteration and adverbs aside, Hemingway's strength was his relentless commitment to efficient prose. He did not waste a single word—he was the consummate literary tightwad. For example, he once wrote a story that was just six words long: Baby shoes: for sale, never used. Hemingway [supposedly] regarded it as his best work. Told you he was a narcissistic bastard.

Allow me to rebut with a six-word story of my own: Yes. The man can write. Bastard.

Please continue dear reader because, trust me, you have no idea where I'm actually going with this.