Crazy Submitter Threatens My Life

This is what you get when the United States Postal Service fails you when you mail back rejected stories in a self-addressed, stamped envelope. This is what you get when a writer hasn't been published since the eighties and has become more and more insane since that decade because of this. This is what you get when that writer is still extremely upset over John Lennon's death. This is what you get when you have a policy against responding to crazy letters. Little things like this that make publishing a literary journal worth it.

Dear Bradley,

Where are my stories? What did I do wrong to deserve such a cold shoulder during The Mark Chapman Generation, Twin Towers, "Malvo", academic massacre, Amish massacre, etc? Is that it, then, Bradley, you're just going to leave me dangling? Ok, if that's the way you feel. I've never seen 1 magazine in 40 years of doing this live more than a few years after being treated so shitty as you have treated me. You actually stole one story and have others as well. What were you offended? Why, because I care not for The Mark Chapman Generation, which hasn't produced a chicken worth busting down the door to eat anyway? That's what George Carlin said about women who oppose abortion, "Have you ever noticed women who oppose abortion you would never want to fuck anyway?" Bradley, it says in the book you respond in "2 weeks or longer." Bradley, it's been quite a while, almost a year since you reported back to me. You won't publish my stories but you'll steal it and discriminate against me, someone who simply wants to earn his way into your magazine? I don't get it. I don't have access to the computer. I deserve to be punished for that? What is this, Tommy? You sure know where to put your cork.

With real love,
tons of dismay,

Crazy Man

P.S. I love the title of your mag. Don't you? Although Mark Chapman is still sitting in prison perfectly peacock proud of himself for starting a whole generation. Most of my stuff doesn't care much for The Mark Chapman Generation. In fact, most of my stuff deplores the two bit-murderer. MCG. Is that why you ban me, Bradley? Bust Down the Door is actually an adjunct of TMG? You did say "no stories about victims". Mark Chapman doesn't give a fuck about his victim, or victims, either. This will probably be the last you hear from me, so rest assured. Unless you possess a conscience, Bradley. Then we might even resume Busting Down Doors together. Amazing , how TMG does nothing but takes everything, amazing. Then they pray to "God." Uh-huh. Well, take care. Hope to hear from you soon, If you don't return my stories, one day I'm going to pick them up. I promise you that. Remember what I told you, Bradley? I am a real New Yorker? Good. Uh, no stories about what people have "done to them."

A guy in L.A. (a former "Editor") ran away from me so fast, well, I just let things go. Gosh, it's easy to put the fear in those teensy-weensy Mark Chapman clones, so easy.

I have 3 kids, Bradley, 3. That's the thing with TMG--it knows no pity, no shame--no conscience. You steal my stories? There's another Bradley Sands living in MA, down south. What a nice guy. Told me "Good luck getting your stuff back." Gosh, that's not such a typical name, "Bradley Sands," is it? I knew a "Harly Sands" once. You've read me. I'm everywhere. You've got just a little while longer, Bradley, to come through. I need more villains, like, "Bradley Sands." Why, I might even steal it to you! How the clone BDTDAEATCS. What's wrong with that, stealing your name, using it however I like? The other guy doesn't mind. Not at all. You?

Then he writes this across the back of the envelope (I guess he didn't have another piece of paper):

No, B.S., that's not the way it is done. Never was, never will be. So what do you hope to accomplish as you are? Have you used my story? Man, by lawyer vacations near you . . . . You make my ten-year-old daughter cry, B.S. she had such high hopes for us, you see. In fact, she found you in the book--for me.

Chessquick

I like blogger in comparison to livejournal. It is annoying to read long entries on livejournal. I am ok with reading long entries here. I like writing long entries.

I have a novella in the new Bizarro Starter Kit (Blue). It is called Cheesequake Smash-up. Cheesequake is a town in New Jersey. It is my favorite name for a town.

I forget until now: Someone, I think Carlton Mellick at the horror convention, told me that it is not pronounced Cheese Quake. It is pronounced Chess Quick. This disappoints me greatly.

I finished 665 words (the neighbor of the beast) of my story today. It is decent so far. It was not fun like I like writing to be. It was work.

My writing recently has been fun, whereas it used to be torturous. Although I like what results from the torture more, but the fun is more accessible to readers, so I think I will mostly try to stick with the fun.

But the editors of the anthology are familiar with my old style of writing and invited me to submit, so I am trying to write something resembling my old stuff. I think I am failing a little, but I am ok with this.

Working on this story today was like being at work for six hours and having to deal with a line of non-stop customers with frequent procrastination breaks. I guess the procrastination breaks would entail the customers occasionally saying really crazy things to me which entertain me greatly. Like the man-dwarf from the other night with the little, creepy hands that was telling me how he likes goth music and wearing a pentagram around his neck. Thank god for these little moments.

The writing started to go by quickly and I started to enjoy it near the end, but then I started to feel tired. Isn't that always the way it works?

I wrote up to the point in the story where the protagonist (Alex Trebek animatron gone wigger) meets Stagger Lee. Stagger Lee is a fascinating character. He was a real person. He was a black man. He killed his white buddy in a bar in 1895. Since then, he has become a character of folklore. A song was written about him. There have been many many many different variations of this song. The murder was a pretty minor incident as murders go, but "Stagger Lee has become an archetype, the embodiment of a tough-guy black man -- one who is sly, streetwise, cool, lawless, amoral, potentially violent, and who defies often white authority."

I put that in quotations because I stole it from Wikipedia.

I think it may end up being some commentary on race relations or something. I don't know. Or maybe I just think it's funny to have a wigger trying to buddy up with a guy like Stagger Lee.

Nick Cave didn't actually write the lyrics in his version of the song. I always assumed that he did. It was written by a bunch of black prisoners. We will probably never know their names. That makes sense since the lyrics are kind of hip hop-y and Nick Cave is not hip hop-y.

I chose to base my story on Stagger Lee because the book is a horror anthology and I do not really write horror. But the song is about a killing spree, so I already have the horrific subject matter there. I don't have to put any extra effort into making it a horror story, I hope.

I think I will take a break from the story for the next few days and work on outlining my novella. I worked on it once in Utah, but didn't do very much besides character profile stuff. And ever since I got home, my psyche has been too crazy to get any writing work done until today.

The housing situation isn't looking nearly so dire because I've found a few places through Craig's list where the people either have common interests with me or friends in common. Maybe we will click. People move out of my house all the time and whenever I did roommate interviews, I usually ended up picking some random who I had nothing in common with because everybody nearly everybody was a random asshole who I have nothing in common with. So hopefully I will stand out from the horde because the stuff that I have in common with the people who are looking to fill a room.

I think that after my next book (which I will probably write a second novella for besides the one that I am working on now), I will probably write a memoir-thing. I will probably use a pen name so I don't feel restricted about what I wrote about. I guess it will kind of be like some of these blog entries, the ones that I write about my past. I don't really feel restricted in my blogging, but there are some things that I want to write about that I feel like I can't write about.

But sometimes I feel a little paranoid about the content and titles of my fiction. Will a job refuse to hire me because I wrote a novel called It Came from Below the Belt? Or will it be because of the subject matter? Or will someone not rent me a room because of this? Or will an MFA program reject me because of this? I feel a lot more paranoid now in comparison to when I started this paragraph. Maybe I fucked up by not using a pen name from the very start? Oh well. It's too late now.

I think I will apply to the Juniper Summer Writing program at the University of Massachusetts. I was just reminded about it today. It is near me. It is for a week. Hopefully it is not too late to apply. I will call them now and find out.

Crawling Over Fifty Good Pussies to Get One Fat Boy’s Asshole

I am trying to get my Nick Cave story started. It is based on the song, Stagger Lee. It involves a Disneyland clone called Wackyland, the Hall of Game Show Hosts, Alex Trebek gone wigger, time travel, and a killing spree. I am having trouble getting started. It is going slowly. I have written 81 words. I would like to write at least 500 words tonight. It's almost been a month since I last wrote prose. I am not using the short, clipped sentence style that I have been enjoying lately and find extremely easy.

This used to be my first sentence:

"It was back in 3032 when the economy was sitting pretty in its penthouse suite at the Plaza Hotel when the Hall of Game Show Hosts in Zanyland had a programming malfunction."

It is a little like the first line in the song, but I deleted it because I didn't want to start with an expository sentence.

In the future, I am probably going to publish an e-book anthology called Bradley Sands is a Dick. Andersen Prunty will probably edit it. We may have come up with the concept while we were drunk. I will break his trust by quoting an email from him. He promises that "this will be the most poorly planned, ill-conceived anthology imaginable."

He has already come up with a form letter rejection: "I regret to inform you that your story, while well written, did not adequately convey to me that Bradley Sands is a dick."

I like this form letter rejection.

I am motivated to publish this e-book because Blake Butler does fun things with his literary journal and I don't do fun things with my literary journal and I want to be like him.

Every story will be called Bradley Sands is a Dick.

Earlier in this entry, I was having trouble thinking of the word "break" in the sentence, "I will break his trust by quoting an email from him." This may be why I am having such a hard time writing my story. This happens to me sometimes. I forget a lot of random words. Obviously I didn't forget the word, "break," but I forget that it was used in the context of that sentence. Sometimes when this happens, I start making telephone calls that make people think that I am crazy.

An Interview With James

James is a thousand year old Mexican who gets his powers from his virility, the smartest person I know, and proof that the human race is devolving back into tadpoles. It should come as no surprise that he is being held against his will inside the rubber walls of Northampton State Hospital for believing he is Latoya Jackson. He livejournals at theophile.livejournal.com. Most of his good entries are hidden behind a friends only lock.

Where do babies come from?

Oh, is this one of THOSE interviews? "Let’s ask the celebrity inane questions and watch his reaction"? Well, if you were hoping to provoke a dramatic scene from me, you've got it. Who goddamn cares where babies come from? This isn't one of the important questions. At some times, in some places, there is an absence of babies, and then something happens, and the babies are there. Just accept it and move on. Quite frankly, I find this sort of navel-gazing repugnant, in a world where there are so many serious questions to ponder. Where do the clowns go when the circus leaves town? Who is it that writes the answers, upside-down, at the bottom of the page? Which Nightmare on Elm Street movie most perfectly captured the horror of sleep? Why do bad people make good death metal? There is so much we need to know, and so much left to do.

You refer to yourself as a celebrity. I did not know that you were a celebrity. Please enlighten me on why you are a celebrity.

Were you not paying attention? WHERE do the CLOWNS go, when the CIRCUS leaves town? They up the tents, they gather the poles in long, ominous clusters, they wander through the fields, absently picking up discarded soda cups and popcorn cartons. But when the trucks pull away, there isn't a greasepainted face to be seen. Not a squeaky red rubber nose in sight. Just civilians, faces drawn and hungover, in the cab of each truck, in each rusted station wagon. I think we are reasonably forced to conclude that the clowns do not leave. That, in fact, a "circus" is best understood as a clown deployment, staged at the expense of small towns across America--each of which will find, in the years to come, that their sleepy and hospitable communities have taken a turn towards the comically absurd.

I see, you think you're the interviewer as well as the subject. I bet you have all your answers pre-written by some guy who you paid in kisses. What gives you the right to choose your own questions? Give me another pre-written response and I will make you the subject in my experiment to determine the chainsaw's effect on the human brain.

Do you see what you're doing? Faced with an interviewee who doesn't blindly capitulate to the demands of your interview schedule, you become defensive. Backed into a corner. "Where do babies come from?" "Why are you a celebrity?" "Why do you write your own questions?" I can't sink my teeth into these. Babies come from somewhere, or maybe nowhere. I'm a celebrity because people love me. I write my own questions because you're not giving me anything to work with here. And there is so much left to discuss, so many issues still left unexplored. The present is getting more futuristic by the moment. There is no time to waste. Now ask me something that matters, and stop breathing through your mouth so much.

You are now the subject of my experiment to determine the chainsaw's effect on the human brain. Why is that gooey thing that's seeping out of your brain turquoise?

There is really no reason for any reader of this interview to doubt anything that we say is happening, is there? Ah, the stark simplicity of the written form. Bradley, please take your finger out of your ear. It is disquieting. Oh no! I have dropped a tray of expensive
flatware on the floor, and the ceramic pieces have effectively exploded, each into a million perfect pieces, each shaped like Florida! And, as I watch my brain drip down to join the shattered plates on the floor, I am struck by how odd this interview might seem to someone who was not here. How arbitrary the transition from nonsensical bickering to dramatic violence against heads and soup dishes might seem. Gray matter pools with red around the broken white shards. We will smile, almost sadly, at future readers who doubt your transcription, muttering softly, "You had to be there."

Why are you outside on the street, jumping on people's heads as if you were a Super Mario Brother?

Time changes us, Bradley. Even as I, at this very moment, unfold three concentric pairs of perfect gossamer wings from the back of my head, I am reminded of that recent moment when the reader of this interview read that fateful query, "Where do babies come from?" Who would have thought, then, that she was about to embark upon such a disquieting journey, so full of hostile negotiations between interviewer and subject, nonsensical rants about carnival entertainers, and never-expanded-upon references to the Nightmare on Elm Street franchise? And, as my mind fixes on this recent memory, I also think to the moment, still several breaths into the future, when that very reader will reach the final sentence of this interview and, looking back, feel vaguely annoyed at the two of us for having played so haphazardly with her free time. We stand, brave Bradley, suspended in this awkward moment like a cataract, poised to break across a gray sky before tumbling to earth again. This is why I have made the incision stretching between your left shoulder and the uppermost of your right vertebrochondral ribs, and why I have poured such a sticky-sweet acid into the resulting chasm. As my third and sixth eyes blink in tandem, a new mouth that is strictly speaking neither mine nor yours begins to hum an anacreontic melody. If you look closely you will see that my own mouth is wider than the stars, now. Do you have any other questions, cacographic Bradley, before I join in this joyous song?

Since it's obvious that you're ignoring my questions and creating ones of your own design by mixing semen with the Hebrew alphabet or something, this is my next question: Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah?

It has been a pleasure speaking with you today, Bradley.

Thank you for not answering my questions, Latoya.

anti-mental health bomb exploding in my brain

One of the first things that I saw after coming back from my trip was a clogged toilet. Welcome home!

The toilet seems to be invincible to a plunger and drano. Today, I called my landlord's son who repairs things in his father's properties. He has fixed the toilet before, with a device called a snake.

My landlord answered the phone. He said that his son had taken his own life yesterday.

I am sad. His son was a really nice guy. I am sad for my landlord. His son always seemed relatively happy.

My landlord seemed pretty calm. Maybe it hasn't hit him yet. After he realized that I was his tenant rather than his son's friend, he asked me if anything needed to be repaired. I was a little surprised that he asked this. I told him that the toilet was clogged. He told me that I had to take care of it myself. He was not mean when he said this, but he apologized afterwards as if he was being mean. I said goodbye and hung up. I forget to say something like "my condolences." I regret this a little. But I told him how sorry I was to hear about his son and how I liked him earlier on in the conversation.

My dog died too. My dad called me while I was having an overpriced beer in a hotel bar with a few writers. He died during surgery. I don't remember why he was having surgery. He was old. He wasn't really my dog. He was my parents' dog. I'm not sure if I lived with him for an extended period of time. He may have been around the last few years of high school. He was around the summer that I lived at home. He was around the few times that I lived with my parents after college. He was a very nice dog. His name was Gordon.

A couple of weeks ago, I found out that two of my housemates were moving out. There were both leaving behind their last last month's deposit, so I had this month to find their replacements. I was a little stressed about this before going on my trip. I get very stressed over every little thing. It is difficult to find two replacements at the same time. I tried not to think about this while I was in Salt Lake City. I was not looking forward to coming back and dealing with it since I'm usually the person in my house who finds new people because the others are usually too lazy.

Today, another roommate told me that she was moving out at the end of the month. Now I am very stressed out. I am going to find a new place to live instead of finding three new roommates. This will be easier. I hate finding a new place to live. I know how difficult it can be. I have interviewed potential housemates in the past. There is a lot of competition. I wish I had more friends in the area so I wouldn't have to deal with this stuff. They would probably either have rooms available or friends with rooms available. The Prince of Candy might be interested in getting a two bedroom apartment with me. He will tell me tomorrow. This will be very nice. I like the Prince of Candy a lot. I miss living with friends. But I looked at Craiglist today and two bedroom apartments seem a lot more difficult to obtain than an empty room in an already populated house.

This entry has became boring. I am stressed. I am sad. I rented the Nancy Drew movie out of the vending machine in the supermarket. I liked the Hardy Boys more than Nancy Drew when I was young. This is because I am male. Nancy Drew tries to solve the Black Dahlia murder. I wonder if she succeeds. I will see.

question

Are there any other entertaining blogs that I should be reading? I don't like blogs that mostly publish stories/novels-in-progress/poems/announcements about story publications. I want to be entertained by a record of a person's life or entries about their opinions.

minimum word requirement

Before Bust Down the Door had a minimum word requirement, it was very hard to fill an issue because 90% of the stories submitted were flash fiction. Now that we have a minimum word requirement 90% of the stories sent are still flash fiction. I really don't know what the fuck is wrong with people.

Rejecting stories based on an inability to meet the word requirement goes pretty quick though. I will read a paragraph or two. If I do not want to continue reading, I will reject it. I will not give the author the benefit of the doubt. I will assume if the author failed to pay attention to the minimum word requirement, they also failed to absorb the rest of the guidelines. If they send flash fiction, it is most likely a story that is not appropriate content-wise.

But I will let it go if it's a within a couple of hundred words of the minimum. And if it's within a thousand words and the author writes something like this in their cover letter: "I know this is shorter than your minimum guideline, but I'm willing to take the chance."

And I show favoritism. If I "know" a writer, I do not care about the word requirement. If I solicit a story, I do not care about the requirement.

It is very hard to fill an issue.

I am very tired.

I am at work. I just got back from Utah this morning. I might write more about that tomorrow. I am very tired.