My Playboy article on why men read erotica

You might be thinking, Of course I know why men read erotica. Well, my debut Playboy article is about why men read erotica, what they get out of it, how reading erotica is different from watching porn and what they learn from the genre. I interviewed Ernest Greene, author of The Master of O, about men's reactions to his very kinky book, and three male erotica readers.



Due to space considerations, I couldn't get into every nuance and this is geared toward heterosexual male erotica readers (though I'd love to read about gay male erotica readers if anyone writes that article), but I'm very happy to have broken into such an iconic publication and to add to the conversation.

Also, never give up: I pitched this in February to another publication. Filed in May. In August, I found out I was getting a kill fee. I brainstormed where to send it, finally decided on Playboy. Pitched in early November, and just under a month later, it was published.

A brand new free erotica story that I'm glad got rejected the first time

I'll be writing more about how to handle writing rejection and turn it into a positive step for your career soon, but today I want to highlight one example. My story "Spitting Image" is up today at Tamsin Flowers' Supererotica Advent calendar. I recommend reading all the entries; you can start with day 1, which features "Fallen" by Tamsin Flowers.



She's asking readers to donate to these charities, if you're so inclined: Crisis, The Albert Kennedy Trust or Coalition for the Homeless.

I'm thrilled to have a new, original story free for you to read, because most of my writing lately has been nonfiction, with my only new erotic fiction stories appearing in my recent and upcoming anthologies such as Come Again, Dirty Dates and Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1.

What's especially gratifying for me about this particular story is that I had submitted it to an anthology and gotten good feedback on it, only to later have it be rejected. Of course, I was disappointed. I wondered: What's wrong with my oral sex sensuous spit story? Was I foolish to expect it to make the cut? Am I bad at the male POV?

But then I smartly shook my head, drew up my shoulders, and decided to send my little tale out in the world. I was proud of it and didn't need to take one person's no for an answer. So I sent it to Tamsin and she loved it! Now, I'm not saying it's "good" because someone else approved of it; I don't believe in that. "Good" is by and large subjective—and yes, I say that as someone who teaches erotica writing classes and does believe anyone, certainly including myself, can improve and deepen their writing. But at the end of the day, you can't make someone like your work. You can't insist they read it or appreciate it. You can only work to find what Jennifer Lee calls in Building Your Business the Right-Brain Way your "right peeps." Tamsin is one of my right peeps, and I'm thrilled she chose my story for her project.

No matter what form it takes, rejection isn't fun. I'm actually already dreading having to do it for my next call for submissions, which I hope to have posted in the next few weeks (yes, it's awful to be on the side doing the rejecting too). But it's also part of writing (and dare I say, also part of life), and is why I recommended the podcast Behind the Prose with Keysha Whitaker, because in one episode I listened to, she said, "Getting rejected is part of the process. If you're not getting rejected, that means you're not writing." Sorry, I can't remember the exact episode, but what's great about her podcast is she opens by talking about her writing acceptances and rejections. She normalizes rejection, which is good because she's absolutely right: whether you're talking about fiction or nonfiction, rejection is part and parcel of the process of sending out your work.

The only way to never get rejected is to never submit anything, which is also a valid choice, and not one I mean to malign, but if your goal is to be read by a wide audience, unless you're building that audience via self-publishing or a blog or podcast or some other means, you will need to risk your work being rejected by someone. Once, I was determined to break into a certain online literary journal. I thought that doing so would mean I'd "made it," that I was smart and cool and as good a writer as someone I was desperately jealous of. I submitted three times (and this is one that charges a small fee to submit) before I realized I was doing it for the wrong reasons. I didn't stop submitting because I was afraid of rejection, which had already happened, but because that particular quest was pointless and the rejections were hitting me way too hard (so hard that one led to one of the worst and craziest decisions of my life, which is also a story for another day, but let's just say something illegal was involved in my post-rejection stupor).

I made the leap of risking rejection with this story, "Spitting Image," twice; once my story got the boot, and once it got a thumbs up. It's still the same story, and it's not a "better" or "sexier" story because someone said yes to it. What it is is available for you to read for free. I hope you like it!

Why being flexible is one of the most important things a writer can do

I fully believe flexibility is one of the most important traits a writer of fiction or nonfiction can have. Yes, you love your words, and yes, you have your goals and ambitions for them, but unless you run your own magazine or website or publishing house, there will be times you have to compromise or, as is often the case for me, not so much compromise but let an editor guide you into making your piece better and/or more in line with what the publication wants.

This week, I got my first byline in The Washington Post with my essay "Old magazines, stuffed animals, and sex toys: How hoarding shaped my relationship" in their Post Everything section, which was Post Everything's most read story on Tuesday and Wednesday. Here's the thing: my original draft looked nothing like what got published. Neither did my second. The title and focus were on completely different aspects of hoarding, and while my editor was interested in the topic, those earlier versions didn't quite work for what they were going for.

So I went back to the drawing board. I offered a few possibilities for what angle might work and when we decided on relationships I went for it. My first working title was "How My Hoarding Is Threatening My Relationship" followed by "Do I Love My Stuff More Than My Boyfriend?" Then that got finessed into what you see above. If I hadn't been flexible about that, or had thrown a fit over the title that ultimately went with the piece, which I saw for the first time when it went live Tuesday morning, I would have been persona non grata there. But as a writer, I want my work to be read by as many people as possible, not because I'll get paid more, but because that's the whole reason I'm putting such personal information out there in the first place. If this version, with this title, along with the photo of my hoarding that was requested, will make the essay a better fit for their audience, I'm all for it.



Guess what? It worked. My essay was the most read piece on Post Everything on both Tuesday and Wednesday. Yes, that matters to my editor and, on a personal level, to me. It means I did my job well (I'm not saying if a piece performs poorly traffic wise, or, as I certainly know well, a book doesn't sell, that the author/editor didn't do their job well though, because there are so many factors going into it), it means the combination of words and photo and placement and social media and whatever else makes someone want to read about the life of a hoarder succeeded. And this may not be true for everyone, but when I have one writing win, it makes me excited to work on the next one (sadly, the opposite happens too, and my poor boyfriend has to live with my hoarding and my moping when I get writing rejections).

For the record, I pitched a different piece about hoarding to another publication I'd love to break into, and it got rejected, but kindly so. Since there seemed to be interest in the topic, and it's one I know not tons of people are writing about from a first-person perspective, I tried Post Everything. I was flexible about who I wrote for, what I wrote, what images went with it and how the piece was positioned, because I see this one small essay as part of my larger career as a writer. I especially love when I get to write about topics that are not sex, because I do so much of that already. I love writing about sex, and have been honored recently by some of the topics I've gotten to cover and the things people have shared with me, especially ones that I feel can make a difference, such as the sex toy store crime article, but I also rebel hard against being stereotyped as a single-issue writer. That is not my goal and it's freeing and exciting to be recognized in another arena, even if "sex toys" are in the title. So thank you for reading this piece, and I hope this inspires you to dust off a rejected piece and get it out the door.

Not coincidentally, this week I finally sent out rejection emails for my spring Cleis Press anthology Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica. I procrastinated on it because I despise it, and am always considering quitting erotica anthology editing because it is not fun and kind of makes me feel like an awful person when I have to do it, even though the numbers will tell you that 100+ submissions of at least 1,500 words each cannot fit into a 65,000 word book. Because this book took me a longer time than usual to finalize, I found that many authors had already sold their rejected pieces to other publications. This made me feel so much better about the difficult task I was faced with, and reinforced my intuition that a rejection is just one publication's reaction (which, as an editor, I can tell you happens for so many reasons beyond an author's control), and that another may be ready to snap up your story/essay/article/etc. Here's the cover of Come Again, which I'm 99% sure will be on sale at CatalystCon at the end of March and in stores close to then too - stay tuned for readings and events, and click on the cover or title above for my introduction and the table of contents!

Rejected by Brevity, accepted by Thought Catalog, and yes, I'm a fucking snob: "What is Kale?"

So I was doing this thing that I thought was semi-productive by blogging my rejections from journal-I-really-really-wanted-to-prove-something-to-myself-by-being-published-in Brevity, "Wannabe Housewife" and "Pill Popper." Then I realized even more productive would be to...send them somewhere else. Somewhere that doesn't even charge a fee! That even has cache. Of course I still want to be published in Brevity but I also have come to accept that that's highly unlikely and I am okay with that. I embrace my lack of whatever it is and I am now coming out as a snob in "What is Kale?" It was a snobby reject kind of day and yet I feel happy. Imagine that. Thanks, Thought Catalog! You rock.

Modern Love Rejects has launched

My Modern Love rejection, from The New York Times Modern Love section, but of course, goes up tomorrow at Modern Love Rejects. I hesitated over giving permission, even though I'd submitted it, but then I realized, once again, that fear is the ultimate self-sabotage. That even if my essay is foolish and stupid, even if one could say the same about my actions (feel free), I wrote it. I finished it. I tried. The not trying is what makes me despise myself. So, yeah. It makes me feel a little squeamish, but maybe that's a good thing.

So check out the first three Modern Love Rejects, by Samara O'Shea, Kiri Blakeley and Alisa Bowman, and submit your own!

Rejected from Brevity: "Pill Popper"

Here is rejection number 2 from Brevity, the second in a making-lemons-from-lemonade blog series I'm apparently doing until I learn to write better. Trust me, I am gonna keep submitting. I know it doesn't pay; in fact, it costs $3 to submit, but if it kills me, I am going to crack this market. My pride is at stake here. And yes, it's a good opportunity to work on myself, work on my writing, improve, blah blah blah. I know that, but right now, I just want a yes. That is my truth; maybe I'll write about it in my shame essay (for a 2012 anthology I'm SO excited about, more on that, uhh...in 2012). Lately I've been so hellaciously slow and I need to step it way the hell up. That was my little don't-fuck-up pep talk to myself. 750 words: on it. Must brainstorm ASAP.

Pill Popper
by Rachel Kramer Bussel

I open my brown suede purse and there, nestled amid the various items that add up to twenty pounds when I hoist it over my shoulder, is a baggie containing four pills. The baggie is clear, pills are white and orange, and, when they catch my eye right, seem to match my multicolor heart-covered iPhone case.

They look pristine, shiny, bright, like medicine, even. They are medicine, for my friend with the prescription, anyway. She had to stop taking them and offered me some and I took them, even though I promptly forgot what they are called (I texted her to ask: Vyvanse). They sound like just what I need: a way out of the hell that is a blank page, a blank mind, or worse, a scattered one, bouncing from website to website until I fear I’m testing my browser’s capacity to keep opening them.

The pills are so small, seemingly delicate, even though they feel like hard plastic. I can rotate them, unscrew the orange and the white to reveal a substance that looks like a cross between baking powder and sprinkles. They have writing on them, in this case, numbers and letters: S489 and 30 mg. But I wonder what else they might contain, where some mad scientist to personalize them just for me. “Courage,” perhaps. “FML.” “Get over yourself.” I imagine every self-help mantra I’ve ever wished upon inscribed in the tiniest of fonts with words that would dissolve on my tongue, work their way into my bloodstream.

I know, though, that words are limited. I have one, “open,” inked in purple on my back. It’s beautiful, my tattoo, and sometimes, when I slow down enough to reach behind me and stretch for it, I will walk my fingers along where I think its loops exist, let those four letters talk to me, tell me the message I thought so important I needed a permanent reminder. Yet that one word did not magically transform me from cynical to sunny in the half an hour it took to get it etched onto my body. I got it precisely because staying open-minded, privileging optimism over my innate pessimism, is the harder path to walk down.

As I contemplate whether I will take the first of the four pills, I know what I wish they could give me: freedom. Though I’ve never taken pills recreationally before, I know I’d take as many as I could acquire if they were guaranteed to give me what feels missing in this moment. Right now, it’s a plan--for my overdue novel, for my messy apartment, for having children. If I had instructions, guidelines, a map to follow like one does a recipe, I’d feel safer, saner. I’d know that even when a day or week or month or year is hard, there is a logical next step, a way out of here and into there. Obviously, that is a lot to ask of thirty milligrams of anything, and yet I want to ask. “It never hurts to ask”--isn’t that conventional wisdom, or perhaps just a cliché, right up there with “There are no stupid questions?”

I like the idea of talking to the pills; maybe if I were a different type of person, I’d be more into talking to G-d. I still spell those three letters like that, with the hyphen I learned in Hebrew school, even though that entity, whoever he/she is (or isn’t), is not on my top 5 list of non-humans I want to question. I also talk to my Hello Kitty pillow, ask her things that even if she did have a mouth she surely couldn’t answer. Sometimes, I’ve discovered, it’s truly better not to ask.

Ultimately, whether I swallow the pills or not, whether they help guide and focus me or not, there will still be questions, many of them so big and overwhelming I half wish for a pill to make me the kind of person who doesn’t have questions, ever, who’s accepting, accommodating, easy. Or maybe one that could talk back, respond, even if I didn’t like its answers. If that were ever invented, I’d be big pharma’s bitch in a heartbeat. Until then (or I find that personal mad scientist), I’ll have to write the words I want to swallow to make them part of me, make them real. That’s nowhere near as easy as simply opening my mouth, but maybe the long way out is the ultimate freedom, the mythical shortcut simply a mirage.

3 Reasons I Don't Give Feedback on Rejected Submissions

Read them at The Nervous Breakdown

Recently, I've noticed an uptick in authors asking for a critique of the stories I've rejected from my anthologies. Most of them ask politely, and I send back the shortest reply I can explaining that I have a rule against giving any sort of critique. This latest round of requests made me wonder if perhaps I was being too harsh, but then I realized that there are very good reasons for me to refuse. Here are the top three:

Time

Keep reading at The Nervous Breakdown

Rejected by Brevity: "Wannabe Housewife"

I still have a very love/hate relationship with posting personal, revealing things here, but if I'm ever going to be a writer (I guess I already am, but I mean, in a bigger, better way), I have to stop caring about the judgments. So I submitted this to the journal Brevity, a venue I'm determined to crack and learn how to write succinct essays. It got rejected, but since it's set in LA, on the trip before the last one, I thought I might share it here. I didn't go back and re-edit it for this blog, or even reread it. I am grateful for the rejection for forcing me to study and analyze the writing there and try to come up with something that will work. I have a few essays and stories lurking on the edges of my mind.

I will say I spent so much of last year lamenting missing people, lamenting the things I did wrong in so many relationships. I think there is a value in figuring out where I can be a better person, where I've hurt people, but I also think there's a way that can become an endless loop that just makes you feel awful. So I was trying to capture a moment I still remember so well - I wrote my tattoo essay in that hotel room - where I was really happy and hopeful. And I still am, I just am trying not to focus all that hopefulness outside of me and onto other people, and onto the parts of my life I can control and have a say in.

California is such a weird state for me; the Bay Area is like the ex capital for me (more on that later, but let's just say, I'm so glad I'm single), and weird things happen to me in Los Angeles. Hopefully not this time around!

Wannabe Housewife
by Rachel Kramer Bussel


I’m shopping at a Vons at a strip mall in Burbank, California. It’s the middle of the day, and we’re in the middle of a heat wave, the kind where simply crossing the street makes you forget everything you ever liked about the sun and think of it as an evil force you must escape from by any means necessary. In this case, that means a grocery store, plus, I need water. Everything about this is surreal; I live in Brooklyn, I have a 9-to-5 job. Most salient, though, is the fact that I don’t cook, yet suddenly, surrounded by endless aisles of foods I didn’t even know existed, along with some I did, I have this urge to cook⎯not for me, but for him, the boy who’s hotel room I’m borrowing for the day.

I say boy but really he’s a man, of course, but I like saying boy. His hands remind me of a boy’s, small and soft and sweet, unlike the rest of him. He can be sweet, but he can also be tough, prickly, hard to read. Even though he has one of the biggest penises I’ve ever seen, his hands are my favorite part of his body. I held one in mine as we fell asleep the night before in the giant hotel bed, the best kind.

As I stroll past the industrial size packages of beef jerky, I start to think about what he might want to eat, what might be helpful after a long day. I start to imagine myself rushing home to him with groceries, spending the day in an apron, in a kitchen. Not a specific kitchen, not his, or mine, but a fantasy one, in a big suburban house, not either of our Brooklyn kitchens.

Maybe because I’ve never spent a day, or even a night, whipping myself into a frenzy to cook anything, I find this image sexy. I like the idea of him off working and me home, alternating writing and cooking as seamlessly as one might cracking one egg, then moving on to the next⎯if one were good at cracking eggs.

Even though I’m going back home tonight, I say yes when asked if I want a Vons club card. You never know; maybe I’ll be back, right here, in this very same strip mall. Maybe I’ll even be staying with him.

I wind up buying the giant bag of beef jerky for myself, and a gallon of water for him. It’s hot out there, even though we’re in a luxury hotel. I don’t want him to get dehydrated.

We don’t have that kind of relationship, one where we worry about each other’s health, at least, not officially. I feel like such a girl, but, well, I am one, even at 34; maybe I’ll always be. I want to be the girl to his boy, no matter how many women’s studies classes I took deconstructing those notions. I want him to want me to feed him, comfort him, love him. That is what Vons makes me think about, when I’m not marveling over things like s’mores Goldfish crackers and Scrabble Junior™ Cheez-It®s, and wondering when the last time I actually shopped in a supermarket was.

Later that night, on my way to the airport, I ask the cab to drop me off. I was given five sandwiches for free, and, while delicious, even I can only eat so many spicy cold cuts. I’ve saved the spiciest one for him. This is my version of being a housewife; I rush out of the cab and tell the clerk his name and room number. I’ve scrawled my name on the label so he knows who it’s from, texting him to let him know I’m dropping something off. I leave as the clerk is picking up the phone to dial, slipping into the backseat, thankful we’re mere minutes from the airport.

I never hear back from him as to whether he got the sandwich, whether he liked it, and I’m too prideful to ask. “Maybe he never got it,” a friend suggests, and I picture the clerk, who’d seemed kind and professional, putting the phone down the moment I’d departed and helping himself to the soppressata.

I don’t ask in part because I don’t want to ruin the fantasy, to release myself from all I’ve invested in that sandwich. I still don’t know how to cook, despite an hour in the air-conditioned grocery store. Maybe it’s time I learn.

I want to make love to this book cover

Kathleen Warnock told me last week that my story "Swollen" didn't make it into Best Lesbian Erotica 2010. It was the best possible kind of rejection - personal, a bit regretful, and she told me to submit it next year. I think that makes me 5 for 10 for the years I've been submitting to the series, basically every year since "Monica and Me" was in Best Lesbian Erotica 2001.

I'm disappointed, partly because I would've pulled off a Best Of hat trick, but mostly because this cover is one of the best, imo, I've seen Cleis do. SO hot. Plus a band (BETTY) is the guest guest judge, how cool is that?

Since I have to send out my own rejection letters soon, it makes it a little easier. There's always next year, which is the great thing about the annual series.

Reject me!

I mean...I'm reading a very old Village Voice column that was rejected by Jon Friedman from his book Rejected. Fancy that...It's actually a kindof dated and boring column, but the part I'm extra bummed about is that we were told that reprints were fine, and then the reason given for my rejection was that they weren't looking at any reprints. Um, okay...anyway, come hear me and eat free cupcakes. I will be scouring the galleys at Housing Works!

The Rejection Show presents:
REJECTED FROM REJECTED

Featuring pieces that were, for whatever reason, left out, declined, removed, and rejected from the recently released, critically acclaimed book, Rejected: Tales of the Failed, Dumped, and Canceled. --For established fans and/or new fans of the book, the show will also feature readings/performances from some of the book’s actual contributors.

AND live music from Erin & Her Cello!

FREE "Rejection" CUPCAKES courtesy of Life in a Peanut Shell.

'Rejected from Rejected' is a uniquely fun, entertaining, funny, and insightful night filled with rejects of rejection and accepted rejection from rejects in the book REJECTED (or something like that).

'Rejected from Rejected'
A "Rejected" Book Release Event
Hosted by Jon Friedman
The Housing Works Bookstore
Wednesday, March 25th @ 7PM
126 Crosby Street, New York, NY 10012
B, D, F, V, to Broadway-Lafayette
212-334-3324
FREE

Oh yeah, my last The Frisky column and visiting my ex

I feel so weird always saying "my ex" or "my ex-boyfriend" since it's not like it's a secret who he is, but anyway...I wrote my final Dating Drama column for The Frisky on how to deal with an ex. As in, do you stay friends? Don't talk at all? Do what I'm about to do and probably sleep with them?

Speaking of breakups, rejection and the like...I've been assured by my two very awesome editors there that it wasn't me, and it wasn't them, but the economy. At first, of course I was upset because nobody likes to be told their writing is no longer needed, plus I had just updated all these bios saying I write that column, and, yes, the money. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was fun while it lasted but is totally cool with me. It frees up my mind and my energy to write about other things; I just pitched a parenting mag and am gonna keep doing so until I start breaking into that market.

But I'm hoping to go back to pitching some more salacious things for The Frisky, like some of my Dealbreakers, and also kindof looking forward to not having to mine my dating life for material every week. I loved the opportunity and would do it again in a heartbeat, but I'm not gonna lie; having a guy you're kindof seeing, or something, read every column, is challenging.

So that's where that's at. As for me visiting my ex, well, I miss him, and this is hopefully my last Bay Area visit for a while. I feel like I know SFO and the two Sephoras there like the back of my hand. I have a lot of mixed feelings about him, us, our breakup, and while I am trying to move on, and doing pretty well, to not see him would be weird, especially given the circumstances of tomorrow's reading. It just feels right.

I am treating myself to a hotel on Sunday, just haven't figured out which one.

Rejection!

I wanted to tell you about tomorrow night's "Duo-tacular" Rejection Show and lo and behold, when I go to the site, it's all fancy and pretty. You may already know about that, but if not, do check it out. Jon has lots of stuff for you to look at, including video and interviews (like this one) and more.

AND...you can and totally should submit your own rejection to his awesome, awesome book (I have no idea what will actually be in it but if it's not awesome, well, you can go ahead and take over my blog) Rejected, coming out from Villard in 2008.

I know some of you are probably like "we know, we know" but on the off chance that there are new readers who have never heard of The Rejection Show, do check it out. I've become a big fan of the show, and continue to find it both hilarious and inspirational. Jon is always updating and tweaking it and genuinely cares about his audience; invariably, you'll find him offering some rejected person (like Jessica Delfino when her video for "My Pussy Is Magic" was taken off YouTube) a spot on his show. And, you know, "Best Place to Publicly Relive Your Failures." I've been on the show twice - once reading hate mail and showing a video of me singing "Like a Virgin" with my friend Jodie when we were 8 or 9, and almost hurting myself from laughing so hard, and then on this year's Valentine's Day show. Both times the crowd was so warm and enthusiastic even though I felt a little self-conscious about not being a comedian.

Being friends with Jon also means that any time I see anything related to rejection in any way, I send it to him.

Here are the official show details:

It’s the 1st ever REJECTION SHOW DUO-TACULAR featuring rejected material, rejection stories, rejected videos from some of NYC’s favorite COMEDY DUO ACTS plus special guest animator Matthew Vescovo.

TWICE THE FUN! TWICE THE FUN!

The Rejection Show
Hosted by Jon Friedman
The Upright Citizens Brigade Theater
Wednesday May 9th @ 8PM

Featuring REJECTED material from:

MATTHEW VESCOVO
(Award winning ‘Watch and Learn’ MTV ad Campaign, Instructoart.com)

AND
THE 1ST EVER REJECTION SHOW DUO-TACULAR!

STUCKEY AND MURRAY
(Musical Comedy Duo Andy Stuckey and Jon Murray)

KURT AND KRISTEN
(Kristen Schaal and Kurt Braunohler)

SLOVIN AND ALLEN
(Eric Slovin and Leo Allen)

MATT AND KATINA
(Matt McCarthy and Katina Corrao)

THE COWBOY AND JOHN
(Curtis Gwinn and John Gemberling)

WALKER AND CANTRELL
(Sarah Walker and Jessie Cantrell)

STEUERNAGEL AND BURNS
(Brad Steuernagel and Mike Burns)

LIVE MUSIC from Rejection Show House Band:
THE DEFIBULATORS

And more fun REJECTION surprises and guests!

TICKETS AVAILABLE HERE!

Created, produced and hosted by writer and comedian, Jon Friedman, The Rejection Show is a comedic based event that embraces the rejected and “turned down” material of writers, comedians, cartoonists, artists, and human beings whom display their creative and personal “failures” live on stage. Now set to be a major book release titled, REJECTED published by Villard.

The Rejection Show
Hosted by Jon Friedman
Upright Citizens Brigade Theater
Wednesday May 9th @ 8PM
307 W. 26th Street
C, E, F, 1, 9 to 23rd Street
(212) 366-9176
$5

My best rejection?

I'm trying to decide what to submit to Jon Friedman's book Rejected: Tales of the Failed, Dumped, and Cancelled. And can I just say how excited I am for this book?

I could submit something that's been rejected, and, well, um, there's an essay I sent to Mr. Wrong but that would just be...wrong. And while I love the spirit of the show, I think I have better things. Like hate mail! And another hate mail that I read at the Rejection Show but will not blog so as not to antagonize the person. Interesting legal question: who owns the copyright on something like that?

Anyway, if you have any ideas, let me know. I guess you wouldn't really know about work that's been rejected, but anything else. For now I'm gonna send the hate mails and this old Voice column about Valentine's Day breakups and hookups. For the record, I'm still not a huge Valentine's Day fan, at least in its usual incarnations. I don't need to do an anti-Valentine's thing, just something normal or mellow. Probably the best Valentine''s event I went to was a Lois show at Tonic. I was there alone and this was back in...'98? '99? Which makes me go want to find out what Ms. Maffeo is up to nowadays. I could use a good dose of her music, live.

Speaking of live events, check out Jon's MySpace page for upcoming gigs, including the super awesome Ritalin Reading Series hosted by Lindsay Robertson and the next Rejection Show on May 9th. And see some rejection classics (I have seen these several times so I'm entitled to call them classics) like "Michael Winslow, I'll Get You!"

And now for some true lol classics, just because these still crack me up almost four years after I first heard them (RIP, East Side Oral):

A Letter to a Blind Date

A Letter to the Inventor of the Tank Top