It's been three and a half months since my last post, but who's counting? The summer I'd imagined to be all about writing turned out to be a summer in the studio.
I've got a bunch of stories out there looking for homes and a steady stream of "Thanks for sending us this. It's not right for us, but consider submitting again." I'm as fond of rejection as the next fellow, but this is ridiculous. Yes, I have considered the very real possibility that the stories aren't any good.
I've got a bunch of stories out there looking for homes and a steady stream of "Thanks for sending us this. It's not right for us, but consider submitting again." I'm as fond of rejection as the next fellow, but this is ridiculous. Yes, I have considered the very real possibility that the stories aren't any good.
When a publication asks for a head shot, I'm at a loss. I've only got three to choose from. One is out of date—2004—and the others are dull and weak examples of the photographic arts. One of them makes me look like I'm criminally insane and out on a weekend furlough. In the third photo I look okay but it was taken at the same party and I had to try and photoshop out the guy leaning into the picture and flipping the bird. My photoshop skills are limited. I ended up just making a greasy-looking mess in the background.
I keep meaning to ask my friend David, a terrific photographer, to shoot a head shot for me, but I hate to be photographed. Yeah, it's probably that old Native American fear, well-founded, that the camera will steal my soul. What's left of it.
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