Litopia

“Where do you want me?” I said, already slipping my guitar bag off my shoulder onto the bed. The nurse scowled at me—probably the midwife, I assumed. “Anywhere but there,” she said. At least my presence in this most unusual of gigs wasn’t entirely unexpected. Then, her face softened. A look I’d seen before. One of recognition. “Are you…Marlow?” “Yes.” At least, I was. Even if my five minutes of fame was over two decades ago. My Martin guitar was already out of its case and I double-checked the tuning.

i’m thinking that i should probably try to write weekly. no rules really. While I’d like it to mainly be about my writing, it could very well be me spamming y’all with cat pictures. Today, at least, it’s not writing-related. The friend who canceled on me last week rescheduled, and we had lunch yesterday. I’d like to say I was good and had an entrΓ©e sized Ceaser salad, but that got zeroed out by the three Sangrias I drank. Whoops? Chicago weather has been all over the place in the past week.

Schools are out for the summer, so the kids have taken over the beaches, the swimming pool and the movie theater. URGH! I wanted to go to the movies the other day and there’s nothing playing for an old man. If 64 is old. The movies playing are either horror, cartoons, or superhero. I wanted to see the WWII movie Pressure, but it’s not, nor will it be playing at my one and only local movie theater. So I’ll have to wait a few weeks and rent it on streaming.

β€œIt was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents – except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets…” The opening sentence of the 1830 novel Paul Clifford by Edward Bulwer-Lytton runs (indeed run-ons) for over 50 words beyond this point, describing a storm raging through London. It’s pathetic.

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Peter Cox is the author of the UK No. 1 bestseller β€œWhy You Don’t Need Meat” (US title β€œYou Don’t Need Meat”) and with Linda McCartney author of the UK No. 1 bestseller and worldwide multi-million bestseller β€œLinda McCartney’s Home Cooking”. Together with Peggy Brusseau he’s written many more national bestsellers. He founded Litopia way back when the β€˜net was still a pretty nice place.

Forgive and indulge me in a Brag-Blog about my latest short story acceptance. I’m fairly new at the lit mag game (less than a year), and every piece that someone wants to publish still feels like a hard-won big deal.

Supported on the back of a giant turtle, the Discworld has everything you’d expect in a fantasy setting. The Hero’s journey is represented by a greedy, impecunious, and inept wizard acting as guide for a naive tourist, whose lethal luggage waddles (occasionally at alarming speed) on hundreds of little legs. A sympathetic parody of D&D-style fantasy novels, The Colour of Money is where it all starts.

This has absolutely nothing to do with writing and everything to do with being ghosted or canceled on. Over the years, I’ve slowly stopped trying to herd cats. I’m tired of trying to make plans to hang out with friends, only with said friends to cancel on me or just not show up. Friends who live here know how to track me down. If you want to do something, you have to be the person to contact me. Sorry, not sorry for sounding like a snippy bitch. And even then, like, oh say…..today.

β€œAlice, pop off a quick note to those aliens,” says the Brief. β€œYou can do it over the weekend. Thousand words, max. Write whatever you want.” What I want is a twenty-one-volume science-fantasy epic set on a hydrothermal vent. What I need is a pay check. Here goes nothing. Dear Aliens, I have been asked to write to you, I assume in defence of humanity. Yes, we probably deserve the death ray. Put your best, most honest foot forward. That’s what my mum used to say.