I have a pill that I take when I take it.
Others take drops.
Both are available on Amazon or in your local health-food-crazy-hippy-store.
Primal since March 5, 2012
SW: 221 | CW: 204 | LPW: 166 | UGW: 140 (80 lbs loss)
I used to be a first reader for a now-defunct fiction magazine. The pros were universally chill about changes that might need to be made to their stories. I never met a prima donna, though I know they're out there, and I've met them.
The unpublished newbies, however, could range from doormats (I'LL DO ANYTHING IF YOU'LL JUST PUBLISH MY STUFF) to "do you KNOW WHO I AM?" types. (And the answer to that was: You are the writer who is not going to get published if you don't learn to listen to constructive criticism.)
Not saying all editors are great. Editors have bad days. The one I worked for would sometimes go off on a tear on things that made no goddamn sense, and I'd have to re-edit her comments to make them, y'know, coherent. But quite often we just got really wretched, completely inappropriate submissions. Some of the stuff we got in our slush pile was...well, let's just put it this way: it would totally fit in that iodine thread.
There is simply no way to write about Three Things I Do Well and keep it G-rated. I can't even keep it PG or PG-13 rated, and I've tried all morning. So I am just going to write it, and if you do not want to read about an apartment complex full of people with DOMINATRIX on their business cards, skip tomorrow's post. I cannot bring myself to let it be M for a mature audience, but we will likely have an R.
Oh, slush piles, endless source of entertainment and torment.
I did acquisitions for a while. The worst bit was having to reject writers who were genuinely good but either didn't fit our mandate or simply were not going to sell enough for the investment. Publishing houses are book factories, and a lot of the time, great literary writing isn't marketable enough, so it gets rejected despite being amazing work. Very sad.
“If I didn't define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people's fantasies for me and eaten alive.” --Audre Lorde
Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, steak in one hand, chocolate in the other, yelling "Holy F***, What a Ride!"
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Almost make you forget about the slush stories where kids were chopping up angels and eating their thumbs. Or scientists having sex with dolphins.