She closes her eyes, and I feel my insides curdle. I have no idea what I’m feeling, but it doesn’t feel right. It feels messed up. She walks over to the couch and takes a seat, her hand barely keeping a hold of her beer. She looks up at me, and my face feels hot.

“Do you have Tivo?” She asks. “I don’t want to miss America’s Next Top Model.”

–

I’m alone on my couch. It would have never worked out anyway. We were two different people. For one, I preferred Project Runway.

Okay, I’ve been attempting to get published for about eight months, now. Something like that. Maybe ten. I don’t remember. Heck, I don’t even remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, I can’t possibly hope to remember when I submitted my first story for consideration.

Point being, I haven’t been doing this a real long time, compared to other writers who have been trying to get published for years. So, a lot of what I’m saying might seem like initial disappointment, or whining. But, it’s not. Contrary to what multiple blog posts might tell you, I’m not an emo kid, who does nothing but whine. I’m mainly writing this to gather my thoughts, to decide what direction I want to go.

When I write a short story, I usually invest around an hour per thousand words. So, a short story of mine, My Father’s Eyes, clocks in around 10,000 words. So, that’s roughly 10 hours of work just to write the thing. Then there’s about ten to twelve read-throughs, each roughly an hour per 10,000 words. So, that’s roughly ten to twelve hours in the post-editing process.

Of course, the total length of this process needs an additional variable: Cool-Down Time. This is the period in which I step away from the story, and come back with fresh editing-eyes. For a story this long, this can be anywhere from a day to a week. At this point, I’m sitting at about 2 to 3 months for the actual creation process.

Then, I’m ready to submit. So, I pick a publication and submit. Then, there’s a down-time, where I wait for the result of the submission, which is invariably a rejection letter. This period is roughly four to six weeks. So, I read through the story one more time (about an hour) and find a new publication to submit. Again, I wait four to six weeks, get a rejection. Rinse and repeat. As my good friend, the King, would say: et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

My point is, I invest months upon months into a single story, but I can’t seem to sell it. At first, I thought there was something wrong with the story. Then, I got depressed. (I actually DID emo). Got drunk. Deleted my entire writing folder. Sobered up. Replaced my writing folder from backups. And started the whole dang process all over again.

Then, I started to think maybe it’s the publication. So, I resubmitted it to another. Again, rejection. Then, something happened… I submitted to Clarkesworld Magazine. Now, Clarkesworld boasts one of the highest rates of all Sci-Fi magazines, roughly 10 cents a word. They also boast the quickest turnaround time.

So, I decided to give it a shot. I took a short story of mine, Elizabeth, made sure I was happy with it, and sent it their way. Now, their submission system is slightly different than the rest. They have a numbered queue, so you can see where you are in the process. Over the course of four days, I walked that queue tick down from around 200 to rejection.

During this whole process, I realized something… I was behind 199, or so, other people, when I submitted. Since it took four days, you can assume they get through about 50 a day. Times that by 30, you’ve got 6,000 submissions a month. Now, this might be a pretty exaggerated figure. I’d expect the actual number to be a little closer to 2,000 – 3,000. But, it could be even higher. I have no clue.

Now, this is the process that not-famous writers use to get published in Clarkesworld, of which the editors choose one story a month. One out of thousands. You can’t tell me that out of the thousands that are submitted, only one of them is good enough to get published. I don’t buy that for a second.

I think so much of this process comes down to luck. You’ve got to catch the right intern, on the right day, to where your story resonates with him or her, and they choose to push your story along to an editor. But, you have to wait a month to find out if your luck has held out? Is this really an efficient process?

When it comes right down to it, how is a writer supposed to know if their stuff is worth a shit, or if they’re just wasting their time? I don’t think it’s this process. It can’t be. I hate the idea of luck dictating whether or not I’m successful, regardless of talent or skill. I can’t stand this concept.

I’ve been looking into alternative publishing. I’ve been reading up on it. I know to avoid Vanity Presses. That shit will just take me for a ride, and leave me high and dry.

So, I’ve been considering self-publishing. It worked for Christopher Paolini and Eragon They made a movie out of that book.

But, unlike Paolini, I don’t have parents that own a publishing company, and considerable resources to help promote my book. Compared to Paolini, my self-publishing venture would basically be me blindfolding myself and throwing my book in random directions, hoping I hit someone in the head.

I’ve been looking at releasing an E-Book. But, I’ve been struggling. There’s a stigma attached to self-publishing–especially an E-Book–which states that it’s only for those who aren’t good enough to get published or the extremely desperate. Which category do I fall in?

Honestly? I believe I fall in the desperate category. But, I’m not desperate to see my stuff in print. I don’t really care about that. I’d go with a Vanity Press, if I was only out for that. Then, I could buy up a few copies of my book, and sell them to friends and family, expecting them to pat me on my head and tell me how great it is. And they would too. I’m not desperate to get published.

I’m desperate to know if I fall in the other category–the one filled with writers who aren’t good enough. I’ve got to know if I’m wasting my time, or if there’s actual skill hidden within me. I can post my books online, hoping I can get enough strangers to come and see them, offering me an extremely low chance of feedback. Or, I can go the Amazon Kindle route, and throw something up and see what happens.

With millions of people shopping the Kindle Story at any given moment, your chances of them stumbling upon your book is quite high. And, then, if it’s reasonably priced, the chances of them buying it is also pretty high. And if they buy it, they’ll review it, hopefully. And maybe, then, I can decide if I should just walk away, and learn to enjoy my fallback career–space pirate!

I’m currently putting together a collection of six short stories. I’m going to put it up on the Kindle store for two bucks, and I’m going to see what happens. Best case scenario, I sell a million copies and become an overnight sensation. Worst case scenario, it sells a few copies, I get a check for two dollars, and the people who bought it rate it one star. Then, I know… it’s time to take to the stars for piracy.

Somewhere in the middle… I sell a modest amount, a few people review it well, and I walk away knowing that I’m not wasting my time. Honestly? This is the one I’m shooting for.

I desire a short story that’s a minimum of 750 words, maximum of 1,000. It must start with the line, “The rocks fell down…” and end with “…and then she farted.”

I’ll have mine posted next week. Will you have yours done?!

“I’ve tried to focus on the good things,” he continued. “I look at Jack—God, Elle, he’s getting so big—and I tell myself that my world still has a bright, shining spot. I try to do that, Elle, because I know that’s what you would do. But, it doesn’t work. I look at him and all I see is a calendar above him, counting down the years. Elle, the truth of the matter…the truth of the whole fucking matter is that I was never as strong as you. Ever.”

I present the following. The opening to a short story I’m writing, off and on. I hope you hate it.

“I know what you are,” Sarah breathed, moving her lips closer to his.

“Say it,” Malcolm grinned. His breath felt icy, as it glazed her skin.

Had she been given another second, or so, she could have probably answered his question. She knew what he was. He was a vampire—a very hot vampire. She opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by an explosion of red and black, as her beloved’s head split in two.

Malcom’s expression changed from romantic love, to unbridled hate, as he spun around. She backed up slowly, as she saw a massive axe sticking out of his head. Black blood came streaming down his cheeks. He let loose a brutal roar, as he searched for the source of the attack.

“Now, there’s no need for that,” a female voice said from the tree line. “You’re just going to tire yourself out, before we get to the real fun.”

A woman, about mid-30s, stepped out from the trees, and walked into the clearing. She was dressed in brown leather, with a royal-purple cloak hanging from her shoulders. She wore a sword across her back, and her belt held about five wooden stakes, sharpened to a fine point. She walked toward them, holding a shiny, metal gun pointed directly at Malcolm.

The woman turned her head toward Sarah. “Are you alright, dear?”

Sarah shot back an angry, dissatisfied stare, but said nothing.

“That’s nice,” the woman replied, turning back toward Malcolm. “So, how do you want to do this? Do you want me to just shoot you? Or do you want a chance to fight?”

Malcolm reached up and grasped the handle of the axe. With a growl, he wrenched the axe free, and tossed it to the side. Almost immediately, his skin began to heal and mend, until only his perfect face remained.

“I see,” the woman said. She tossed the gun to the side. “Okay, then, let’s fight.”

She drew the sword off of her back, and held it forward. Malcolm dashed forward, in a blur, and lunged at the woman. She side-stepped the attack, and brought her sword down across the neck of the charging vampire. The sharpened blade sliced through his neck in one cut, sending his head rolling to the edge of the clearing.

“Disappointing,” the woman replied, as the vampire’s body slumped to its knees, and then fell over. The woman leaned down and rolled the body over on its back. She removed one of the stakes from her belt and held it high.

Sarah’s eyes went wide, as the woman brought the stake down, plunging it into the heart of Malcolm. His body exploded into dust, which slowly settled on the grass around them.

The woman began humming, as she pulled out a rag and wiped her sword clean, before sheathing it. She walked over to where Malcolm had thrown the axe, and picked up the weapon. Her face grimaced, as she looked at the blade, which the black blood was eating away.

“Dang,” she said. “This was my favorite axe.”

She tossed the weapon away, and then went and retrieved her gun. After checking to make sure the safety was on, she dropped it into a holster at her side. Her humming stopped, as a light of recognition crossed her face. She turned toward Sarah.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot about you. Are you alright?”

“You—You killed Malcolm!”

“Was that his name?” The woman shrugged. “I never know their names. They’re always just vampires to me. Sometimes, if there’s more than one, I’ll label them Vampire A and Vampire B. Or I’ll sometimes use numbers if there’re more than 26 of them.”

“You killed my beloved!” Sarah screamed as she scrambled forward, bringing her fists down across the chest of the other woman. “You killed him!”

“It had to be done, dear,” the woman replied. “He was going to eat you.”

“He loved me!”

“He loved your blood,” the woman said. “And perhaps the taste of your flesh. But, there was nothing romantic about his intentions.”

“You’re wrong!”

“Stop being stupid, girl,” the woman replied. “Vampires are monsters, who survive off of sucking the blood out of humans. Have you ever tried to live without your blood? It’s very, very hard. Some might say it’s impossible!”

“I’m going to kill you!” Sarah screamed, her voice reaching an unimaginable pitch.

“Not likely,” the woman answered. “I have a sword. And a gun. And you may not be a vampire, but I’m reasonably sure these wooden stakes would still hurt you.”

“I don’t care!” Sarah screamed. “I’d rather die, than live without Malcolm!”

“Well, there’s no need to be so dramatic,” the woman sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re still young. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to love. And probably half of them won’t even try to bite your neck–you know, unless you’re into that sort of thing. I don’t judge.”

At some point, I will finish it. And if you didn’t hate it now, you probably will then.