About This Blog - Dear Editor Edition

Dear Editor:

Before I submit my work to your highly reputable publication, I've got a confession to make. I've never been terribly adept at pimping my writing abilities, pitching my stories, making all the right connections, etc. Firstly, my writing abilities have never been much for prostitution, as no one gets off (in a purely capitalistic sense) in exchange for a fixed, contractual contribution to my cause. After all, I have no cause. I'm a self-employed whore with sex to sell but no clue how to sell it. Actually, scratch that; I'm not self-employed, nor am I a whore (that was just some wishful thinking to shock you to attention). According to my tax returns, I push paper for a major media conglomerate. In financial terms, my writing abilities have been useless to me, unless you count the fact that they helped me get through college with a respectable GPA, thus qualifying me for most paper-pusher jobs regardless of whether I actually absorbed any knowledge. (now where was I?) Secondly, I tend to ramble too much and often lose the point I was trying to make. There is no Lost and Found box for disorganized, irresponsible writers - only polite rejection letters. You know this because you write the rejection letters, and I know this because I am still looking for that Lost and Found box.

I don't even know why I'm writing to you. You probably won't read into what transpires within the time I'm taking to write this. Your electronics-immersed, blackberry-inhaling attention span can't handle it, and these days, attention spans are no longer spans but minute blips, and yours is likely no grand exception, given the daily clamoring of hopeful-aspiring-writer words putting the memory capacity of your computer into almost fatal overconsumption. I feel like I'm the Gladwellian tipping point, the straw that broke the camel's back (by the way, I first heard that metaphor in sixth grade while reading Tom Sawyer - it was tacked on the tail end of a lengthy string of misfortunes for the title character, and it has remained one of my favorites for its dramatic anotomical implications on an ancient, humpy, smelly animal that spits [and according to Cheney, has probably, at some time or another, cooperated with terrorists]). Who knows? I may be the one, final hit that will black out your editorial capabilities once and for all, causing you wonder why you became an editor in the first place - surely not because you wanted to edit, arranging copy and fixing mistakes before words let loose all over the world, disseminated into different languages, hitting perspectives as they stuggle to formulate under such immeasurable factors as theo-cultural pressure and imminent class warfare, inducing individuals to impulsively react to the globalized words they ingest, the ripple coming back to haunt your dreams of becoming a writer, so you think maybe you want to be that ripple someday, but then you wake up in the morning once again and you stare at these words written by these other writers, these words that could be yours if you could just bring yourself to the keyboard to type it out, this giant cosmopolitan genius within you, waiting to burst...brilliant, hilarious, insightful, exciting...

Anyway, enough about your untapped potential. This is my website, or blog, or whatever the new catch phrase is these days. Most of this shit was written back when it was a conventional blog (ie. I posted every other day; the posts had dates, times, and comments ranging from hate mail to requests for sexual favors; I actually had frequent visitors, most of whom have since moved on to bigger and better blogs), but I've written more since then, and I will continue to write more. Some sick combination of intelligent design and evolution has caused me to remain frequently alone in this room at the computer and not out causing trouble; I have no control over this - believe me, I'd love to be out at the club dominating the dance floor or playing the guitar/lead vocal role for the hottest rock band in Los Angeles, but something is keeping me here, right now, and I have no idea what it is. Call it intuiton or fate, but I just call it the way it is...every new moment calling for thoughts spilling incoherently out of my rusty nerves, the glorified expectation and the disappointed cynic coming together to make some excuse for me to make it all permanent somehow, regardless of whether I'll feel the same way tomorrow. So fuck you with your editing and your pitches and your target audience and marketing scheme and your Hollywood ending. What's hot, what's not. How to lose weight. How to fall in love. Weapons of mass destruction. Lies of manipulative seduction. Manufactured, sensational success is irrelevant when you can recognize and take advantage of the moment. Own it in a way that can't be bought, sold, valued, or corrupted. Love it with all your heart even though it's fundamentally flawed, socially paranoid, and reluctantly isolated. It's mad out there, a misunderstood sea of confusion, and there is no better time than right now to dive in and start swimming against the current.

In summation, I sincerely thank you for considering my submission for publication. Feel free to email me at the address in my profile if you have any questions.

Respectfully,
Delia True