It's Way Too Fucking Quiet around Here

When I'm not listening to the ubiquitous sound of helicopters in LA, hounding after escaped convicts and armed cholos running off with grandma's jewelry, I have moments like these about my writing career: This is the sound of absolutely nothing, which scares the shit out me. I haven't heard from a single journal, agent or publisher in like weeks, which only means one thing: It's about to get loud + nasty + fucked up soon. I'm cringing just thinking about the barrage of rejections. There's a giant shadow blocking the sun, hoovering over my head somewhere in outer space, ready anytime now, in an instant, to crash down to earth like a kaput satellite that arrives half-incinerated, a clunky piece of yesterday about to crush me under the California sun.