Apparently, We Have a Guest Post from Eeon Smith

Hardee Har Har, Canned Laser.

Better Late Than Never

Bunny Goodjohn, who is an outstanding writer and who had no business being in the Stonecoast Alumni Writer's Workshop because her piece was so awesome and there was nothing anyone else can teach her (although we were so happy to have her!) was kind enough to give us a shout out on her blog.
So if you haven't read her blog, get on over there.  Bunny is funny, engaging, charming and unbelievably talented. And while you're at it, pick up a copy of her first novel, Sticklebacks and Snowglobes. And pray she finishes up the novel I got to see pieces of, like, sometime around now, because even as a one chapter rough draft, I can say it was fantastic.

Everything I Touch Turns to Flies

Or, more precisely, everything Matthew and I touch, we destroy (although I did notice Betsey Johnson went under pretty quickly after I got really into her accessories).  Our story "Convention if Exphrasis," which was written about the 2009 AWP Convention in Chicago, was picked up by an anthology, which folded weeks before it's release date.  "Convention" was ours again, and we pitched it to another magazine, which accepted it.

And folded six months later.

This morning, I woke up late and to an email announcing that The Writer, which published our essay "The 12 Conference Commandments" in the July 2012 issue, will be on hiatus after October until another publisher is found. All submissions before March 1, including our follow-up about Low-Residency programs, were to be considered rejected.

So, yes, fellow writers, blame us.  Our curse destroyed The Writer magazine, the single best trade publication (suck it, Ponces & Weenies!) in the writing life.  We accept our responsibility, and apologize for the inconvenience.

Now if only McSweeney's would take something of ours . . . 

Dispatches From the Desk

I got back a few weeks ago from the First Annual Stonecoast MFA Reunion, which was of surprising awesomeness.  I give all the credit to that to Erin Underwood, who is rad and who gets shit done, mostly because she has the perfect combination of being uncompromising and nice, whereas someone like me is heavy on the former and non-existent on the latter.

I sat on a panel with Lexa Hillyer, poet extraordinaire, co-founder of Paper Lantern Lit and fellow 30 Rock affectionato who stressed the need for a good web presence and a consistent blog.  Now I am pretty consistent about my great love of Walton Goggins and my deep hatred of, well, lots of stuff, but that has nothing to do with my writing (with an occasional exception). When I started this project, I was still trying to write pop-culture memoir, which sorta isn't my thing anymore.  I still like records, and I sure as hell still like me some Goggins (sad about him not getting an Emmy nod) but Lexa was right, and if I'm going to refocus my career on writing, then my web presence needs to be about writing and all things related to story and craft and the writing life.

So enjoy that last picture of my sweet Walton, because it might be the last one you see for awhile.

50 Shades of Goggins

I did not go looking for this:

I was at the library.  An issue of GQ was there on the table.  I flipped through it, came to the "Bad Guys" section and thought, "Gee, I wonder if . . . "

Yep.  There it was.

And the worst part is that I'm not sure how I feel about it.  For one, it's terrifying.  The rest of the photos were extreme close-ups or just plain seated poses, but Goggins, of course, has to take everything one step beyond, because he is brilliant and possibly insane.

I have not and probably will not read 50 Shades of Grey.  I am not turned on by bondage and am actively turned off by bad prose.  If anything, this picture should have made me slam the magazine shut and tell our mayor that the library had hardcore pornography just laying about all willy-nilly.

But that chest!  Those shoulders!  That neck!  That hair!  Those eyes, perfect orbs of infinite inky darkness!  How can I not love that my darling Goggins is finally getting the centerfold recognition he deserves?

And the chill, that sweetest chill that shivers down my back when I see this picture. Because damn, I can hear that scream. I can feel the tension in his muscles, the tightness of his neck. As the girlfriend of a professional photographer and as a photography model, I find it fascinating when a photograph can portray such emotion in a flat, paper image. Tiny gestures and intimate details take on grand, larger meanings. It's something I can't do, and so I'm fascinated when people do it well.