At any given time I have two or three things I’ve written that are weird.
I don’t mean weird in a genre sense, weird in a just weird little things. Usually these are little stories where I set out do to X thing which may or may not fit into standard ideas of what fiction is supposed to/has to be in order to be good.
Is this experimental?
Is it just me being a bit of a pretentious Dbag?
I don’t know.
What often mystifies me about these pieces is that I have been “successful” (as in gotten them published) and yet I still struggle sometimes with wanting to get them published because the rejections are often disappointing. Disappointing less in the ow my ego way and more in the I’m sad because NO ONE GETS ME way.
For instance. This piece I had in The Literary Burlesque was rejected-hold on let me check- five times before it got published. The main reason being that it wasn’t “enough of a story”.
I did actually rewrite that piece at one point. I expanded it and gave it more actual story and it ruined it for me.
I have an absolute aesthetic love of pieces of literature that are not “story stories”. Sometimes I like to read things that just have beautiful words and give me a moment or series of moments of brain pleasure. I like to write that kind of thing.
Once upon a time I never -ever- had those things published. I never submitted them. I occasionally posted them in blogs or whatever. I sent them to friends or wrote them as little presents.
I don’t know what got into me, perhaps seeing the word experimental used in so many lit mags I like to read inspired me to give it a shot.
What I have learned in say the past two years is that what I think is experimental and what that actually is apparently are vastly different things. I’m not sure if experimental is taught as one thing and because I am very far removed from the academic literary world perhaps my understanding is limited.
Or my problem may be that my enjoyment of writing these pieces and the good reception I’ve had for some of them has clouded my vision about it.
I’m just not sure.
I have to say I’m having one of those days where I really don’t feel like I fit in the literary world that I have access to.
I am not famous or lauded enough to be doing weird things and have them be acceptable as they are. That may or may not be true but it is how I feel a lot of the time.
While I’m confessing about feeling things I’d like to also confess that sometimes the rules of literature as they are used by people sometimes – shit what am I trying to say?
I guess I feel like sometimes The Rules (and I’m not talking about technical things, grammar etc but the often unspoken rules about what is and is not a story, as in trends and things) if I try too hard to adhere to them will strip my writing of what makes it special.
Which then leads to me sitting here thinking that My Voice is maybe for too small of an audience. Or maybe I need to bring down the emo a notch and get back to work. Maybe I’m doing it wrong. Perhaps my personal tastes are unevolved.
Sometimes I just don’t know about myself.
The other issue I have is that I know what publications I’ve dealt with who like these sorts of things. However I am really trying to keep branching out to zines that I am not as intimate with. It’s fucking hard.
Now I have to get back to work. Here is a photo I took of myself with my phone last night. It sums up everything about how I am feeling today quite neatly.