Runner Up for the Poets and Writers California Writers Exchange Award

This morning, my writing friend Christina Lee Zilka congratulated me + some other peeps for being a finalist of the Poets and Writers California Writers Exchange Award.  I applied for this award when I was still living in LA but had totally forgotten about it.  Since then, my wife + I decided to move back to Chicago.  So, maybe in the spirit of the award I don't deserve it cuz I'm not in California anymore.  But regardless, when I took a look at the P+W website, I discovered that I was the fucking runner up!  Out of 600 fiction manuscripts + I was the motherfucking runner up!  My joy, though was quickly taken over by frustration + elation + sadness.  Dude, I was so fucking close.  If the judge (the well-known + well-respected Chris Abani, who's a former PhD alumnus of my program at USC, by the way) had picked my manuscript, I would have received an all-expenses paid trip to NYC to mingle with agents, editors + give a fucking reading in the City.  Winning this award would have helped launch my emerging literary career + put me in contact with some of the players in the industry.  This would have been it, man.  This would have been it. 

Motherfucking runner up.  Don't get me wrong, I'm crazy flattered.  But being so close, I'm depressed too.  I mean, at least being a finalist is like:  Yo, you're really good, but who knows how many people separated you from the winner.  But runner up is one of those titles with all the prestige + none of the glory.  You get the name, but no hardware.  It's like being 4th place in the Olympics.  I've always felt the worst for that dude, for that woman, who came so close to distinction but then fell short for whatever reason.  I'm happy for the winner, Laura Joyce Davis.  Her manuscript was polished, controlled + very well-written.  Personally, I think my story is a little better + a little more cohesive than her novel excerpt, but whatevs.  She deserved it.  Though, of course, I think I did too.  But the truth is, I didn't realize how much I really wanted this thing until I understood how fucking close I was.  You know what I'm saying?  I'm happy about the honor of being a runner up + happy for LJD, but I'm so bummed, man.  This could have been my opening as a hapa fiction writer.  But instead, I keep looking for a way in like I always do.

Chicago Purgatory with Markups

Dude, I feel like I spend more time waiting than writing right now.  Usually, that's not the case at all.  But since all of my writing for the time being is for my dissertation, I have a one-sided relationship with my (artistic) reality where I'm submitting short stories/self-contained chapters to journals, small presses + agents but I'm not writing anything new because of my PhD.  It's kinda odd really.  Because I'm not working on my third novel, or even revising my first two novels, I feel like I'm just waiting around for shit to happen.  Like:

1.  American Short Fiction, who has held on to one of my stories for almost two years.  Now I'm not hating, but think about that.  While the gracious editor there accepted a revision, I still have no idea if my story is going to be accepted.  The truth is, I really should consider sending it to another journal.  The only problem is, I feel like that piece is supposed to be published in ASF.  Call it delusion

2.  Mcsweeney's Press, Coffee House Press, Chiasmus Press, Dalkey Archive Press, Nouvella, the Seattle Review, Milkweed Editions, Les Figues, FC2 + an agent from Sterling, Lord Literistic, all of which I sent novels/Novellas to in the past year

3.   A bunch of literary journals like the Asian American Literary Review, Another Chicago Magazine, The New Yorker, Granta, Paris Review, Crab Orchard Review, the Atlantic, Wisconsin Review, Tin House, Indiana Review, the Believer, N+1, New England Review, Guernica, Kartika Review, Barrelhouse, Portland Review + A Public Space

4.  The University of Chicago for an assistant/associate professor of creative writing (fiction)

5.  Depaul University for a full-time creative writing + world literature professor, for which I'm pretty qualified since my dissertation is both a completed novel + also a shorter critical dissertation on the cultural compartmentalization of Asian American cultural identity + the mediation of Asian American masculinity in orientalist contemporary literature

6.  An agent, any agent, who read my short story in the Antioch Review + decides s/he wants a piece

See, this is why I need to finish my dissertation in like the next month (that's my goal anyway).  When I'm working on my fiction, I don't care all that much when it takes the industry forever to reject my ass/play with my emotions/mindfuck the shit out of me/lead me on/ignore me/procrastinate.  I just keep plugging away at whatever I'm working on, knowing that eventually everything will sort itself out.  In the meantime, I'm making pie out of mud, so what the fuck do I really care?  But right now, all I do when I'm not reading in preparation for my final dissertation chapter, is imagine which dream is gonna come true.  And that shit's just agonizing.

Short Story Published in Last Night on Earth Anthology

My Short Story, "I Didn't Accidentally Karate Kick the Stereo," was recently published in the always-cool, always-slick, always-exciting So Say We All anthology Last Night on Earth, edited by Ryan Bradford + Justin Hudnall.  The premise of this anthology is simple:  The world is going to end tomorrow.  How do you spend your last day on this planet + who do you spend it with?  Considering I wrote this short story explicitly for this anthology, you can imagine my happiness/relief when it was accepted.  Anyway, there are some great stories in here by Natanya Pulley, Amelia Gray, Pat Johnson, Kate Lee + many more I haven't read yet.  So check it out if you're interested.  There's some great shit in here.

Short Story Published in the Antioch Review

While a few talented writers like Michael Chabon simply finish their MFA + then suddenly become famous, for most of us, we have to build up our weight, to use a boxing analogy.  And for that to happen, we need milestones.  I consider the publication of my short story, "The Blue Men inside My Head" in the Fall 2012 issue of the Antioch Review (which is another story in my collection, Atlas of Tiny Desires) to be my new milestone.  I may not change my writing trajectory with this new publication, but then again, maybe I will.  I can only hope that Bob Fogarty, the editor, is right when he says that lots of agents read this journal.  If anyone would know, it would be him.  Maybe, just maybe, this will finally be my time to find an agent + get my novels into the laps of readers.  But if not, I can at least appreciate this moment for what it is + know that I'm creating momentum for my emerging writing career + finding some more readers too.  And yo, when I read the contributor's notes of the other fiction writers (Ed Allen, author of two novels + the winner of the 2002 Flannery O'Connor Award, The Chilean-Argentine novelist, Ariel Dorfman, whose work has been published into 40 languages + Robin Romm, a finalist of the Pen/USA prize + also a NYT Notable Book of the Year + Editor's Choice for her memoir), I realize not only that I'm clearly the fluff here, but just as importantly, that I'm fucking honored to be in such impressive company with these fiction writers.  I dunno man.  To quote one of the best musicals of all time, I feel like something good is coming.  But for now, I'm fucking stoked about this publication.  Things are looking up.  The world's getting smaller, man.

Kicking it with Nami Mun


So I was kicking it Nami Mun the other day.  Actually, let me contextualize that last line because the way I wrote it makes it sound like it was an effortless thing to do, like I just pushed a button on my iPhone + suddenly Nami Mun appeared from the ether with a bowl of cherries and a cup of mint tea.  Actually, we were gonna meet at this restaurant in Lincoln Square called Bakin and Eggs.  Yo, when I saw that name (I'm vegan, remember), I rolled my eyes + was like:  Well, this should be interesting.  But actually I did find something in their online menu before I got there (a rad sandwich of roasted veggies, arugula, hummus + multigrain bread--surprisingly good).  Anyway, so I showed up 10 minutes late cuz that's just how I do.  When I finally got to the restaurant, I marched right in past some smokers, looked around for Nami + then sat down at a table that was completely in my line of vision with the door, my face receiving the door's chi (I'm a little Fen Shuiey when it comes to this shit).  I ordered lemongrass green tea, checked my iPhone religiously + waited.  For like 45 minutes.  I'm sure, actually I know, that I felt like I was on a blind date, but not a romantic blind date, a literary blind date, whose rules are so much less clear to me.  I was a little fidgety, I was obsessed with my phone, I sent Nami several Facebook IM's telling her I'd arrived + giving her my phone number to make things easier, I gave the kind waitress several apologetic smiles, wondered when I should take my invisalign braces out to start drinking my tea.  Finally, Nami checked her FB + realized I'd been there for a while but she'd left + gone back home.  Soon, I got a call from a mysteriously blocked number, picked up + it was Nami, her voice like warm water.  Somehow, I'd walked right past her in front (I didn't know she smoked) because I didn't want to be any later than I already was.  I thought she'd come in + take a look.  She thought I'd forgotten.  Finally, on the phone she said:  --You wanna come + meet me in Andersonville?
--Sure, I said.  Actually, that's better anyway because I live in Rogers Park.
--What?  she asked.  God, why didn't we do that then?
--I dunno.
--I thought you lived in the burbs.  Why did I think that?
--God no.  I'd never live in the suburbs.  Too many soccer moms.
And then we decided I would take the Ashland bus Clark + Irving Park + she'd pick me up there, except for some reason I thought she'd said Ashland + Irving Park (since it was the Ashland bus), so I walked the wrong way on Ashland (my fucking phone kept telling me both directions were north, switching back + forth on my shitty new maps app).  When I finally got on the right bus, I texted Nami to tell her I was on.  Then I asked her if I was supposed to get off at Ashland + Irving Park cuz I couldn't remember.  8 minutes later I'd reached my destination + hadn't heard from her + started to wonder if I'd gotten off at the wrong stop.  Then I hung out at the corner of the above cross-street where there just happened to be an abandoned currency exchange which looked sketchy.  Drivers were giving me weird looks like, why is that dude hanging out there?  Does he know it's closed?  Is he gonna perform a dance routine for us?  I called Nami once or twice as I waited but she didn't pick up because she was driving--good for her.  So now I'm starting to think, fuck, did she get in a car accident?  Did she have an emergency?  Is she an amnesiac + she was like 1/2 there when she forgot why she was driving?  I had no idea what was going on, to be honest.  Then, Nami finally texted me + said she was almost there.  But when she told me I was supposed to meet her at Clark + Irving Park, I was like:  -- Fuck + started walking towards Clark.  But then she texted again + was like, I'll pick you up at Irving Park + Ashland, so then I had to turn around + go back to the abandoned currency exchange.  Finally she picked up + I wondered where 2 hours had gone.

Fast-forward to a little café in Edgewater.  I'll spare you most of the deetz (as my Friend Richard calls details), but a few of the highlights:

1.  I told Nami that she was the only person left on this planet who still has a club for her car.  That's when she explained that it had just recently been jacked.  It's like the perfect car for Asian gangstas to race down dark alleys, I told her.  She agreed.

2.  We talked about Nami's Granta story, "The Anniversary,"which I liked but didn't love.  But, I said, there was something devastating about the way the husband completely cut her out of his life.  And the proof that Nami is a really talented writer is that she was able to make me care for the wife even though she'd cheated on her husband.  Also, I gave her an invisible trophy for ending the story on the El station.  Which leads to the next point:

3.  When I told Nami that I thought she does a great job evoking Chicago in her Granta piece, she said she felt she doesn't consider herself a Chicago writer yet.  She said she has to earn that right, a comment which was repeated in a Chicago Tribune article written about her yesterday.  Then she mentioned "Stu" (Stuart Dybek) + how he's sort of the gold standard (gatekeeper?) of the Chicago writer, which got me thinking about my third novel I'll be working on once I'm done with my dissertation (it's about a bunch of Chicago prodigies) . . .

4.  Nami told me how John Freeman, the editor of Granta, like her earlier version of "The Anniversary," + didn't want a rewrite + how that was revelatory for her because she realized that other people can see merit/value in a piece that she may not even like

5.  She told me about the speech that she'd given for the Carl Sandburg Award in front of hoi polloi (many of them, hardcore Republicans) + how she'd talked about how she would never have become a novelist without government help, the public library, public restrooms, free clinics, public assistance, public universities, + government aid that helped her during tough times.  I was so happy for her + so proud of her.  And even more amazing, Rahm Emmanuel stood up + gave her a standing ovation, which had a domino effect on the audience.

6.  Then LB (my wife) met up with us + Nami gave her her complete + absolute attention, making LB feel comfortable + understood + appreciated.  She also thanked LB for supporting my art + also apologizing for our artistic narcissism.  I laughed hard at that.  That's when my respect/appreciation for Nami expanded exponentially.  I was thinking to myself:  --Lord, I fucking love this woman.  She's amazing.

7.  Finally, before she left, Nami turned to us + said:  --We should go on a double date sometime
--I'm down, I said.
LB smiled.  And that was that.

I may have had to work for this t2 (tea + talk),  but I have to say, it was completely worth it.  Nam Mun's for real, man.  She's spunky + she's cool + she's funny + she's smart + kinda blunt + completely real.  Looking forward to the next time.

Shout Outs from the Universe

Sometimes when I'm being really narcissistic + curious about the great big world, I'll google myself, hoping to find some secret Pushcart nomination I never knew about from years ago or another blog of someone who read one of my short stories (it happens, but never enough), which usually means stumbling on some insolent/ignorant comment from some unpublished, superopinionated anonymous poster who doesn't have the courage to use her/his real name but somehow knows everything about me + the industry.  But sometimes, self-googling reveals whispers of your own existence you really want to believe in + also educates you about rad websites you didn't even know existed before you pushed the search button.  The first is a review of my short story "30 Roofies" in the literary blog The Review Review. This story was originally published in Quarterly West + is part of my collection, Atlas of Tiny Desires.  In case you're not wearing your bifocals, here's a close-up of the paragraph about "30 Roofies":

While I don't find this blurbish story review to be particularly profound, I'm very grateful for the press + also appreciate the author's admiration.  Really, I'll take whatever coverage I can get when it comes to my own writing.  As Tom has told me many times, the only thing we're trying to do as aspiring writers is publish our shit + find our audience.  Boom.

Another blog I discovered after self-googling was Ruelle Electrique that reviews literary journals, books + video games, among other things (three things after my very own heart). Ruelle Electrique reviewed my short story "$67.00 for My Favorite Dictator," (retitled "A Full Cellar" by Howard Junker), which was published in the every-snazzy, always fantastic ZYZZYVA.  "$67.00 for My Favorite Dictator" is another story included in my short story collection, Atlas of Tiny Desires.  Again, if you don't have spidievision, feel free to read the follow close-up below.  Or not:



And lastly, I discovered last month that I was included in an amazing, on-going project at The Rumpus to identify the blog or website of practically every writer of color on the face of the earth, which is no small undertaking, let me tell you that.  While I know that I'm hapa, a lot of people I've met in my life don't give me that honor.  I mean, I still have Asian friends who think they're the only Asian in the room.  It just doesn't sink in for many people because I'm not legibly Japanese-American.  So, in a small, tiny way, I found it both amazing + encouraging to see so many writers of color in this world (+ growing all the time!), + I also found it slightly empowering to get acknowledgment for who I am at such a great literary website like The Rumpus, not just for what I look like to the world.  Here's my name, in between Jabarsi Asiam and Jacqueline Woodson:

Moving On Up

Until you've become the darling of the glossies, writing fiction is not a very profitable business.  In fact, most of the time, we're happy just to get a story accepted into a goddamn literary journal.  That's often--usually--the thing we care most about.  So getting paid is always an unexpected bonus for aspiring writers.  The truth is, F. Scott Fitzgerald wouldn't have lasted two years in the current biz before he said, "fuck this, there's no money here, Zelda" + of course, he'd be absolutely right.

You can understand, then, my giddiness for the check I got in the mail today for $180.00 for my short story, "The Blue Men inside My Head"!  This piece is slated for publication in the Fall issue of the Antioch Review + one of the stories in my collection, Atlas of Tiny Desires.  In the writing world, $180 is like a shitload of money! The most I'd received prior to today was fifty bucks from ZYZZYVA, the Kenyon Review + $45 from the Notre Dame Review, all of which I was very happy with.  Also, I was supposed to receive £22 for Stand Magazine, but sadly, the check never came from Leeds, England + I decided to stop fighting that fight eventually.  Anyway, I don't mean this entry in braggy kinda way, I'm just really fucking stoked that for the first time in my life, I received a check for triple digits for my writing.  I see this as a tiny but major victory in my writing trajectory.

Now that I'm practically $200 richer, it's time to spend this shit.  If you live in Chicago, I'll buy you tea sometime.  Just text me.

Good Rejection from N+1

Dear Jackson,

Thank you for submitting " . . ." to us. I enjoyed reading it; it is a very strong essay that deftly explores its subject matter. Unfortunately, however, we're unable to accept it for publication at n+1 at this time.
 
I wish you the best in finding publication for your essay and in your writing career. And please feel free to submit again to us in the future.

Sincerely,
W*** W*******

David Mura Writes Back

I wrote David Mura a few weeks ago, author of recent poetry collection Angels of the Burning + novel Famous Suicides of the Japanese Empire (Coffee House Press), among other books, telling him I really admired/loved Where the Body Meets Memory + that I was planning on using part of it in the critical component of my dissertation I've been working on at SC.  Anyway, I'm included part of his response which he kindly sent me:

Dear Jackson
 
Thanks so much for your kind words about my work. It means a lot to me that someone like you is taking an interest in and writing about WTBMM. Your dissertation sounds like an interesting and exciting project (I have a friend who's also doing a dissertation combining scholarly and creative writing although her committee only allowed a chapter for the creative writing) . . .

Good luck with your work, and yes, if your novel is published, do hit me up for a blurb.

Good luck with your work.

--David

My Fixation on the Novel

It's odd.  If you'd told me 7 years ago that I'd be working on my PhD in English/Creative Writing, I would have laughed at you.  If you'd told me that I'd be working with writers like Percival Everett, Aimee Bender + TC Boyle, I would have said:  Lay off the weed, dude, it's conflating your dimensions.  If you'd told me then that in the next 7 years, I'd publish stories in journals like ZYZZYVA, African American Review, Fiction, Antioch Review, Kenyon Review, Quarter After Eight, Fiction International, Quarterly West, Stand (UK), Notre Dame Review + the Connecticut Review, with more to come inshallah, I would have said: Stop fucking with me man, it's not gonna be that easy.  And yet, even though all that shit's true, + even though I'm crazy grateful for every one of those things, the truth is, I'm not satisfied with my writing career at all, if in fact I can even call it that.

I want to publish my first novel The Amnesia of Junebugs.  I want to publish my second novel The Ninjas of My Greater Self.  While I think both novels have flaws for sure (which novels don't?), I think they're great for different reasons + deserve to be in your local bookstore as much as any other original work of literary fiction.  I have no doubt about that.  I don't doubt it for an instant.  Sure, I see momentum in my own emerging career.  Yes, I have a much stronger backbone from years of workshop critiques + gratuitous attacks by opinionated haters who don't write half as hard as I do.  Yes, I'm publishing stories in journals that I love + admire, that I grew up reading during my MFA years, journals that agents read.  Yes, I believe in myself 100% + would have killed to have been published in some of the journals my stuff appears in now.  But I'm sick of being in professional limbo where your entire life, your whole artistic career is put on hold while you scramble to get your novels published.  This isn't the goddamn 1920's--you can't live off of short stories anymore, even if you publish them in the glossies with your agent's help.

What I want is the novel.  I want my novels in bookshelves.  I want to be able to delete from my inbox a bunch of snarly, hitman-type book reviews by half-actualized, curmudgeon literary fiction writers who write these self-indulgent, in-your-face masturbatory sentences written out of envy for my own ascension.  I want to stop being a default critic of an industry I feel shut out of + start feeling like a player inside my own vocation. 

Seven years ago, I would have been happy with this progress, but not now.  Now I want more.  I want bigger dreams, I want insanity, I want my writing to receive scrutiny, adulation, innuendo, indignation, joy + Eros, I want my books to be dog-eared + heavily creased at the public library, smelling of black tea + engine grease, I want to turn on complete strangers with my sex scenes + move a reader to tears with my characters, I want cum stains, lipstick marks + tear drops on the pages of my novels. I want my unique literary voice to be part of this world, not an aspiration of grandeur.  I want to give public readings, do an interview while drunk + chat with people in bookstores about characters as if they were real.  I want my words to have resonance beyond the voice inside my own head.  I want cultural and artistic accountability, I want the consequences of affecting people, I want to share my creativity to the world, I want the unique privilege of participating, critiquing, embracing + affecting culture.  In other words, in my own selfish, arrogant, egomaniacal, grandiloquent way, I want to be an artist.  I want that.  I want all of that shit.

The way I see it:  My only hope is to either win a book contest, snag an agent or publish my novels in one of the indie presses.  That's when my career will really take off, when I become competitive for creative writing jobs at universities, when I stop questioning my literariness, when I start connecting with readers, when I start standing tall + being what I can only aspire to right now, which is myself.


Why Race Still Matters in Fiction (Reprint)

This blog entry is a reprint from 2009.  Somehow, it still feels incredibly relevant culturally to where we are right now in publishing:

Now I have nothing but love for The Missouri Review + I both respect + appreciate that the editors have the decency to write personal responses on their rejection letters when they like a story. That's nothing if not classy + amazing, especially for such a top-notch (if not impenetrable) literary journal. I don't even have beef with the editor that was kind enough to write me a personal response. I wholeheartedly appreciate both the gesture + her point of view. But I do have an issue with her analysis. Here's a copy of the rejection:
If you can't make out the editor's note, it says:

Hello, Your story was interesting, but I felt like you focused too much on G. being white--she's awful, certainly, but I don't see why race matters there. That being said-I loved the focus on words, and how you ended it. Please try us again soon with another piece.

Here's the deal:

While I totally appreciate the feedback + the honesty, the reality is that:

1. This short story is about the intersectionality of race, class + love in Southern California. It even says so in my cover letter

2. The protagonist, E., a smart Chicana girl who doesn't fit in the white or the Hispanic clique, is trying to survive at a high school where rich white girls pretty much dominate. In the end, she falls in love with an exchange student from [], which drives G. (the rich, white girl) insane

3. There's only one line where the narrator overtly mentions race, when she talks about how some rich white girls (especially in HS) hurt people because they can (a statement I still defend, with exceptions). And if race does matter in this story, I think it matters more in the way that being Latina in SoCal can be a huge obstacle to personal advancement. Sure, sure, any self-applied Latino can succeed, but he or she has to work so much harder for it than many white students from wealthy families who don't need to work half as hard. Latinos, remember, are the highest employed minority in the US. But when your parents don't speak English, or they don't speak it well, or they're working 60 hours a week, or when no one in your family has gone to college, that student has enormous obstacles to getting to college + acquiring cultural capital. That's just a reality, not even a complaint really

4. Anyone who's spent time in SoCal--especially in high school--sees the blatant socio-economic rift between Latino + white Americans. It's slowly changing, but the rich/poor gap is still a reality. My story doesn't blame white people because they're white, it shows how malicious an antagonist can be when she has money, influence + power (which, based on this country's history, is more often a white person but doesn't necessarily have to be)

5. Instead of shying away from things that make us uncomfortable (e.g. race, class, racism, gossip, jealousy) my story pretty much goes for it + tries to talk about big subjects. I'm sick of stories of paralysis, sick of stories that don't deal with the big issues, that are basically apolitical, antipolemical, self-centered little works of art that have no relationship with the greater world

6. Even if my story really did focus on race as much as the editorial assistant seemed to imply, which I think would have been totally fine, this story is above all else, a love story between a Chicana girl and an exchange student from [ ], both of whom, use words to not only express their love for each other, but also to empower themselves in a country where English is a sacred rite of passage. Beyond that, this is a revenge story, where the less-than-perfect, precocious Latina takes her revenge on the thin, rich, white, school bully who hates the fact that all of her money + power can't buy the protagonist's boyfriend. The protagonist's revenge--love it or hate it--is the way she stops feeling like a victim

7. At the end of the day, Cornell West is right: race matters.  At least to people that aren't white. Race matters less to white people because they're the majority race (percentage-wise), so when they talk about how we should just focus on merit, talent, skill, intelligence, voice, stuff like that, that's spoken hegemonically: the luxury to focus on our qualities becomes a way of differentiating us when we are racially + culturally the same. But since different people from non-hegemonic races are not only treated differently by white people, but actually perceive reality differently because of this, you can see how complicated all this gets. When a white person says to his black friend: you're so cool dude, I don't even think of you as black. This is a compliment coming from a white person because he's basically saying I see the universal in you, I relate with you, I connect with you + I don't feel like race is getting in the way. But for many people of color, this is racial erasure. It's like someone taking away a unique set of experiences that have shaped you, experiences fundamentally different than those of your white friend, experiences that are often painful, contrary to those of your friends + sometimes distressing too, but experiences that your friend didn't have, experiences that affect you a great deal, even when you're over them.

So, I apologize for this spiel, but I bring this up for one basic reason: when the good-intentioned editor says "I don't see why race matters in this story," the problem is that for many white readers, race has never had to matter, either in life or in a story--but this is white privilege, the privilege of being allowed to ignore your own race, something most people of color I know never get to do.  When you're white + you drive a BMW, you don't get pulled over unless you're speeding.  When you're black + you drive a BMW, you get pulled over just for being black + having a nice car (happens all the time, by the way).  Suddenly, you become very aware of your race.  Same shit walking through a gated community when you're the "wrong" color.  Or when you try to become a member of your local country club.  Or when you're wearing a hoodie in Samford, Florida.

And for me (a hapa who looks white + is treated white/latino all the time), race matters a great deal, not just the part you see (or the part you think you see), but also the part you don't see (ironically, the part that has shaped me the most, the Japanese side, the blue mosaic me). Race has a huge effect on how I see the world + how the world sees me. So, when conservatives argue that cops aren't racist, they're not completely lying from their point of view. They don't see racism because they're white, wealthy + connected, + cops don't harass them, so you can see why they actually believe what they say (of course, some don't want to see it either because that would be a personal indictment of their simplistic cosmology). Ditto with fiction. When minority writers or writers from minority cultures discuss so-called minority issues in their stories that are remotely racial, social or political, white readers + editors want to know why does it have to be about race, gender, orientation, politics? Why can't it just be about people? My answer: it is about people, but people that aren't always white (or straight or male or politically neutral or paralyzed or frivolously dramatic) who are never able to forget who they are, whether they want to or not. Race (like other minority cultural identities) is an everyday reality, not some thematic obsession. This is something that's hard for white readers--even the best of them--to grasp sometimes because they've been brainwashed with the mantra that only talent + artistic merit should be important. But racial erasure can be just as bad as racialization, especially when you tell a writer of color that nothing they've gone through is important.  And yet, stories come from somewhere + that somewhere tends to come out in their stories.

Quasi-Obnoxious Rejection from Chicago Review

I rarely take rejections personally anymore, even ones from agents.  And I don't take this rejection personally either, not only because I've always had mixed feelings about the editorial direction of the  Chicago Review (different reasons at different times), but also because, well, art is completely subjective + each editor is entitled to different aesthetic + stylistic tastes in her/his journal.  But, I do find the tone of this rejection to be completely fucking obnoxious + for that, I'd like to point that out.  In case you can't read this little masterpiece, it says:

Dear Author,
Thank you for submitting to Chicago Review.  We're sorry to report that we are not going to publish your story.  Good luck finding a bitchier rejection anywhere in the whole world placing it elsewhere.
The Editors

My Own Personal "Ranking" of Literary Journals for 2012

It seems like nowadays, every single literary blog has a ranking of literary journals, often interconnected somehow with Pushcart Prizes or O. Henry Prizes or Best American Stories 20##.  And while I can both understand + even appreciate those metrics, I don't think prizes tell the whole story, for like several reasons:

1.  It's impossible for the above prizes to have objective judges since art + artistic merit is intrinsically subjective by nature.  The proof of this is the way one novel is rejected by 200 agents + then passionately embraced by the next, only to get published + becomes a NYT bestseller, or the way one short story is rejected 40 times by 40 journals, only to finally get published in a tiny lit journal that ends up winning one of these above prizes for nominating that story.  Either there was some cosmic psychic shift that took place that changed everyone's minds or that story that had been rejected by 40 journals was probably already kinda awesome, so how could 40 readers fail to see that?  Or conversely, maybe that story really did suck, but then how could a group of tough editors elect it to one of the highest prizes in literary fiction?  Either way, we have to agree that objectivity is probably pointless + probably impossible for evaluating art.  So let's acknowledge that some of the stories that win prizes are simply fucking awesome + others are, well, not as good as your shit.

2.  I could be wrong about this, but I have a strong feeling that each prize has its own filter bias that separates stories into yes + no camps, almost unconsciously.  By that, I mean that readers/editors for Best American Stories, for example, are reading the New Yorker with the assumption that they'll find something  that will win another prize whereas they probably read Santa Monica Review not actually knowing if they'll find anything there or not, which is a damn shame let me tell you.  Ditto with the Pushcart et al.  I'm sure the readers + editors of the Pushcart Prize read Agni + Ploughshares + Prairie Schooner + the New England Review + Tin House with the expectation that they'll find something worthwhile.  But with the other journals, I'm sure those readers have to be convinced first, which means stories outside of the literary Parthenon can't simply be as good as stories in the New Yorker, they would have to be actually better in many ways to stand out + meet that burden of proof.  In other words, readers for prizes are looking for new prize winners in a small list of journals, whereas they're reading other journals skeptically, trying to find stories that are worthy of their prize in the first place.  And I'd argue that simple paradigmatic difference of reading totally prejudices their reading.

Again, this isn't to say that the pieces included in those anthologies aren't awesome, because honestly, I've read quite a few of them + many times, they're as awesome as advertised.  But sometimes, you wonder if stories get selected in part because the author is already well known, thereby proving how smart the editors are.  I mean, they must be smart because they picked yet another story by this famous author who has published a shitload of books + who has a first-choice clause with the New Yorker, so they must be awesome writers.  Of course, they really are sometimes.  But how does anyone funnel 3,000 stories into a goddamn 12-story anthology?  I don't have a fucking clue, but I can see the temptation to include writers who have already proven themselves because the literary establishment has already decided how talented they are.  But I digress.

So, here are my own rankings of literary journals with the following caveats:

1.  These rankings are totally subjective, but at least I can admit it.
2.  My only methodology is answering this question:  Have I read a short story/essay in this journal that I loved?  How often did that happen, holistically, speaking?  In other words, this ranking privileges fiction because that's what I do.  I can envision an entirely separate ranking for other genres, I'm just not qualified enough to do so
3.  They're not actually rankings.  In fact, I'm going to list them randomly in order to deprivilege the journals that are listed earlier in the list
4.  This list is intentionally incomplete.  I'm not comfortable including journals I haven't read, but I encourage all of you to make our own "ranking" that fits your own personal experience if you have a blog, or a friend who can't talk back

Here they are:

My 2012 "Ranking" of Literary Journals


Narrative
New Yorker (they don't need a link)
Slate (okay, just for poetry, but they do publish some great shit)
Yomama's Literary Journal  Okay, I just made that last one up to see if you were paying attention.


2nd Story Accepted in 2012

I was at Argo Café, the one near the Water Tower when I checked my email on my iPhone + saw this message today:

Dear Jackson,

I am writing to let you know that Bob Fogarty, the Antioch Review editor, is trying to reach you.  He sent you an email and called as well.  Perhaps you can try to reach him at ***-***-****.

Thanks, M*****

Now, Bob sent me a nice rejection letter last year for a story I'd sent him + also told me to give my regards to Aimee + Tom the next time I saw them since he'd published stories by both of them both in the 80's + also more recently.  So I called him, my heart beating madly in my once-sticky t-shirt (typical Chicago summer, man).  I figured he just wanted to talk to me about my story + tell me the things that didn't work for him, a sort of gracious rejection.  But he was out, so I was left in complete suspense.  As it turned out, he'd sent me this email that never made it to me until a month later (5 August 2012, to be exact), which would have cleared up a lot of things:

 Jackson:

Thanks for the call. I read your story and want to take it for AR.  I will call this afternoon.

Bob Fogarty

Later on, he called me + we did talk for a good twenty minutes about David St. Jean, who was the former poetry editor at the Antioch Review (my first year at USC, I took this amazing interdisciplinary graduate seminar with David St. Jean + Frank Tichelli, a class where poets wrote a series of poems, ending in a complete poetic cycle, +  then composers set those lyrics to music + finally MA + PhD musical performance students performed the music with your words--fucking amazing).  Then, we talked about Tom, Aimee, Rogers Park (where I live now, what I called a little Berkeley + Bob called a little Brooklyn), how walkable Chicago is, how great its mass transit is + about how creative programs are slowly being devoured by English Departments (Read:  Columbia College).  And then at the end of all of that, Bob told me he really liked the energy, voice + intensity of my short story "The Blue Men inside My Head," + thought the length was appropriate for the subject matter + that he'd be happy to publish it in the Antioch Review.  Again, if I'd received the above email, the suspense wouldn't have suffocated me so much!  Still, I was so excited I almost came in my pants.  Fortunately, I recovered + told him I was really flattered/excited/happy to finally get a piece in his journal.

To give you an idea of how badass this journal is (if you already know, feel free to skip this part), the Antioch Review is one of the oldest literary journals in the country + has published luminaries like:  Ralph Ellison, John Dewey, Philip Levine, Sylvia Plath, William Trevor, TC Boyle (holler!), Gordan Lish, Raymond fucking Carver, Edith Pearlman, Aimee Bender, Bret Lott, Ha Jin, among others.  It's just such an amazing honor to get a story accepted in this journal.  I've sending stories to this journal off + on for over 7 years. And now, it's all worth it.    

(Another) Good Rejection from A Public Space

Dear Jackson Bliss,

Thank you for your patience. We had a chance to read " . . . " this month, and while we are returning this piece, we would be interested in reading more of your work and encourage you to submit again when you have new work.

Our submission system reopens on September 15. In the meantime, please join us on Twitter or visit our website (www.apublicspace.org) to keep in touch.

Thank you again for thinking of APS for " . . . " We hope you have a lovely summer!

With very best wishes,
A Public Space

At Least I Know My Writing is Hot

And the battle continues, my friends:

Dear Jackson Bliss,

Pleased to have your project, " . . .", what a provocative title.  Clearly, your writing is HOT, which is why Tom Boyle recommended you, I’m sure.  And yet, I’ve found that I’m just not connecting w the material in the way I’d hoped, and am having some trouble w the narrative voice. It somehow reads more like a memoir than a novel, and can feel predictable. Of course, I could be totally wrong about this, and a big house may be excited to sign on. Otherwise I see this as a better fit for a smaller house, in which case you don’t necessarily need an agent. This is entirely an objective opinion, as you know, and I’ll wish you the very best with another agency!

Shall be cheering you on, and thank you again for the look, and for Tom’s kind referral.

Sandy Dijkstra

After the bad news, I did the one thing that always makes sense after a big rejection, I submitted my novel to Graywolf Press.  Ding, ding:  Round 9.

Sent My Second Novel to Sandra Dijkstra

If you'll remember, Tom ran into Sandra Dijkstra a year and a half ago at some literary event + asked him if he could recommend any up-and-coming fiction writers to her. TC Boyle was kind enough to recommend me (which was relatively easy for him to do because I'd just taken a workshop with him the previous semester so my work was pretty fresh in his mind), after which, she told him to tell me I should send her my novel. So, I stopped by Tom's office where he promptly hand-wrote a referral letter for me on SC stationery, sealed the envelope + then plopped the letter in outgoing campus mail. I was so flattered + excited. But then a week later, I sent Sandra Dijkstra a query letter with my first novel + I never received a reply. To be honest, I was really pissed off.

But because I'm a stubborn motherfucker + also because glitches in the matrix happen all the time, I decided to write Sandra Dijkstra a year letter with a new query letter for my second novel, just to see what would happen. And miraculously: It turns out that they never got my first query letter. This shit happens all the time, man. If anything, I was relieved to hear they hadn't received my first query letter because I was superfrustrated at not getting a response. Anyway, long story short, they apologized for not getting my first email but told me they'd love to read my second novel, so I've been doing a master revision for the past two weeks + I just sent them the entire novel a few minutes ago. Would it be fucking amazing if they picked me up? Hell yes. Do I think this is really gonna happen? No idea. See, one of my biggest problems is that I always think everything could change in a flash + I keep pushing for that moment to happen. But I make no assumptions, I just cross my fingers during these liminal moments + keep on writing. Maybe it'll work out. Maybe not, but either way, it's a chance I didn't have before.

Chang-rae Lee Writes Back

Out of the blue I decided to write Chang-rae Lee + ask him for advice on literary agents. I was just curious to know if he knew any agents that were especially interested in Asian American cultural narratives. Anyway, shortly after I wrote him, he was gracious enough to write back. Here's his response:

Jackson,

Greetings. I don't really know many agents who have a special affinity for As-Am writing (mine would certainly say she doesn't, but rather just "good" writing, though of course there are many definitions of that!), but perhaps I could suggest T****** P***, who has her own agency and is highly respected.

In any case, good luck with the book, and the books. . .

best,
CRL

Short Story Published in Quarter after Eight

After submitting stories to this journal since 2005, I'm totally stoked to say that my short story, "Kothar" was finally published in volume #18 of the journal of innovative writing, Quarter after Eight. And even more cool for me, Aimee Bender + Bonnie Nadzam are also in the same issue as I am. So now I'm feeling just great for a few minutes.