News on Not Winning and How Millennials Continue to Suck

This minion has been so busy supporting millennials, I haven’t had a chance to write one word of personal dissent.

[It’s 3PM. I’m making the time now.]

I had 3 submissions looming in the ether for the longest time; mere threads of writership, fraying away as the time lengthened into becoming writer-dormant. The editors told me these essays had ‘promise’ and in compelling fortitude, had a good chance of surviving the longest yard [$].

Final rounds of Women on Writing Q1 2017 Writing Contest knocked one of these submissions out of the running and the editor slapped a salty bandage over the blood gushing out of my gut with an Honorable Mention. This essay, a Seattle Slew of a piece if there ever was one, is particularly juicy (spoiler alert: I could not bring myself to read the ‘placing’ work which surely would stand inferior to my elaborate depiction of scene e.g. ‘hoo-hoos,’ ‘guilty dick,’ streetwalkers ‘nailing it,’ STD clinics).

The Gentlemen’s’ Agreement is a hugely personal account, incriminating not only my sweet husband [‘honeybee’] on a certain undertaking while in Vegas, but zillionaire ‘Max Litoris’ who I happened to be having an affair with when I met the honeybee. To his grand astonishment, I read Gentlemen’s to the honeybee one Sunday morning over breakfast. I could no longer keep the delicious secret to myself that I had potentially broadcasted the intimacy of our relationship to the world at large.

“I’m only going to read you the title and the first sentence,” I told him.

His complexion had flushed with scarlet fever by the time I finished the last sentence.

The second submission, an essay entitled Saving Bill Wilkerson opens this way:

I’m lying on his pullout couch and masturbating, a stone’s throw from where the British retreated across the North Bridge and faced the Minutemen. It’s 2003 and Bill, my boyfriend and “abiding” Christian, is downing Metamucil at the kitchen sink and calling me a sinner. Bill believes cheating on his taxes, doing things half-assed, and pocketing donuts, creamers and packets of sugar from Bible Study is peccadillo. We’re equal, alas; our Misbehaviors though varied, tally up to the same double-scored piety digit. Sixty-five, give or take, out of a one-hundred-point scale. Who can endure pure faithfulness, I ask? Not Paul, Peter, or Judas. I tease him. Not about his Transgressions, but with my Garden of Eden. He can witness my indulgence into my labyrinth of folds, my middle finger, my gyrating, by simply looking through the opening carved out of the common wall that partially separates the two rooms. He chooses not to; stares into the white waxy bottom of the crinkled Dixie cup. He doesn’t want to shake his hearty stamina for abstinence, the one teaching to which he abides.

I submitted Saving Bill Wilkerson to a nonfiction contest call for ‘Scintillating Starts’ and again surmised it was a sure bet because, well, how could a Christian masturbating not be ‘scintillating?’

The editor contacted me a day later—oh, the excitement that coursed through my patched-up gut when I saw her email!

But she did not rave about my ‘scintillating start.’

She asked me if the piece was fiction.

I guffawed.

My dear lady, I wrote back, I have never written a word of fiction in my entire adult life.

[Does this mean I’m out of the running?]

The third submission [sigh] is a personal favorite of mine. It’s about a certain demise. My account of my sister’s husband’s death by hanging on Thanksgiving Morning, 11 years ago [no, I’m not keeping track]. No hoo-hoos, guilty dicks, masturbating or streetwalkers nailing it. Just a broken-necked coward hanging from a tree whose body was found by a 12-year-old newspaper boy and most likely still overwrought with horror, is living his life in one of McLean’s padded rooms. Rejection of Forgive Me came by way of an announcement of contest winners. It’s a Canadian publication, so the informality comes as no surprise. Eh?

Oh, and last but not least, the topper. The millennial kind.

So, over the Christmas/New Year’s break, work was shutdown. Like it was so seriously shutdown, your badge didn’t work to get you into the building (or gym). This is a grand benefit for those who have tenure since the dawning of time and never left for another company out of fear of change or lack of ambition. I got permission to work because I’m not one of the Chosen and upon one of my bosses asking if I’d be interested in doing some writing (we’ll call him Turdman), I drafted an article recapping the most-socially shared content of this blog I help manage.

Now, understand that Turdman told me, ‘make this your baby.’

Well, I made it my baby. Weaving and vomiting in nervousness and contributing my blood, chasing after some recognition, a work-related publication credit. And when I pushed out the thing, glass at my sides and my bottom lip stretched over my head, he accepted my flesh and blood, swaddled the thing and put his name on it.

# # # # # # # # # #

Dear Lisa,

Congratulations on winning an Honorable Mention in the WOW! Women On Writing Q1 ’17 Essay Contest! We all loved “The Gentleman’s Agreement”! You have such a great voice and your essay was riveting. I was glued to the page. Thank you so much for sharing, and keep up the excellent writing. We hope to read more of your work!

Write on!

Angela & WOW

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