Fighting My Dumb Monkey Brain

This has, without a doubt, been the best week of my writing career (so far).

On Sunday, I received an R&R (revise and resubmit) for my first pro rate paying market. They liked my story, “Seeds,” and wanted to print it, but the ending was too bleak for the tone of their anthology in its current form, so they asked if I could thread some more hope into it.

Yeah. Absolutely. No problem. Just because I’m usually nihilistic and depressing in my writing, doesn’t mean I can’t work with an editor and adjust to fit a slightly different tone.

“Isn’t that sacrificing your art?”

Oh, hi dumb monkey brain. I was wondering where you were. Isn’t all art a collaborative process? What do you say to the editors and publishers along the way? Aren’t I supposed to kill my darlings? This is a business, right?

“Well, yes, but wouldn’t you rather wallow in the anxiety for a moment instead of acting?”

Needless to say, I ignored my dumb monkey brain. I revised the story, re-titled it “Safe Haven,” and resubmitted.

“You aren’t going to hear back from them.”

Go away.

Two days later, Made in LA accepted my short story, “The City,” for Volume III. It’s a great collection of indie authors in LA writing about LA. I caught them at two book events last year during their book tour, including one at The Last Bookstore, my favorite book store in Los Angeles. I think this means I get to do a book tour with them for volume III???

“They only took your story because you know them and some of them were on the podcast.”

Ugh.

Two days after that, my short story “Hemikrania” was accepted by Murder Park After Dark for their Volume III, with one of the greatest acceptance emails I’ve ever seen:

Dear A.P.,

Fuck you. This story scared the shit out of me. I accept it. Shut up and take my money.

I, of course, lost my shit for the third time this week and was barely able to focus on anything else. I was literally dancing around my apartment listening to a funky house song on repeat when…

"They only took your story because you’ve been in previous anthologies.”

Sigh.

My dumb monkey brain is an asshole.

I have the evidence, in my hands, that people want to buy and read my stories, and that under-developed sack of thinking juices and electrical zaps is trying to tear me tf down.

That’s Imposter Syndrome for ya. I haven’t come close to getting it to go away. I could have “Safe Haven” accepted, sell my “Bearwalker” novella, get agented, sell my Carrion Company series, shit, I could write the next great American novel, and my dumb monkey brain will forever fling poop in my direction.

But maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to learn how to dodge out of the way of most of it.