Posts Tagged ‘Magazine’

My Response To Apricity Magazine

December 27, 2018

 

In mid-July of 2018, I submitted a short story to Apricity Magazine. I didn’t receive any email confirmation, and didn’t hear back from them for five months. When I did, it was a rejection, and it came on December 24, 2018; Christmas Eve.

As any serious short story writer knows, rejections are part of the game. They’re never a welcome thing, of course, and depending on how the rest of your life is going, can often be downright depressing. And if, like me, you send out lots of submissions, then, like me, you’ve probably experienced getting more than one rejection on the same day. It’s a horrible feeling. I call it the ol’ one-two punch. So at first, this rejection didn’t bother me too much. But the more I thought about it, the more I began to realize that sending a writer a rejection on a major holiday is a terrible thing for an editor to do.

Now, here I must explain that I’m not really sentimental around the holidays. Mostly, they’re just an annoyance. But the majority of people in our society do get sentimental around Christmastime, which I’m sure includes a great many writers. I can imagine how disheartening it would be for a writer who’s looking forward to a warm and happy Christmas to get a rejection on a day like Christmas Eve. And what about those writers who’re prone to depression around the holidays for one reason or another? I know from experience how it feels to get a rejection when you’re already depressed about life. It’s terrible. So the more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

That’s why I decided to write a letter expressing my thoughts to Apricity Magazine.

At this point, I have to stress that I’m not so obtuse that I can’t see the situation from Apricity’s point of view. I’m sure the editors have been working hard to finalize the details for the next issue of their magazine, which includes the unfortunate task of sending out rejection emails to authors who’ve submitted to them. I’m further sure that they wanted to get the last of their emails sent off before Christmas, when they’d be home and spending time with their loved ones. I’m sure—at least, I hope—that they were too busy to stop and think about how authors might feel about getting rejections on Christmas Eve. And I’m equally sure that I wasn’t the only author who got one that day.

So, yes, I can understand. Editing and publishing a magazine isn’t an easy job, and sometimes to get a job done you have to be a bit coldhearted.

Still, that’s no excuse. My reasoning for saying this is, after spending months sorting through the stories, the chore of sending out rejection emails could’ve easily been put off for a couple days. All it takes is a bit of conscientiousness to stop and say, “Wait a minute. Maybe rejecting an artist’s work on Christmas Eve isn’t the best thing to do for obvious reasons.”

It would also be disingenuous of me not to admit that writing a letter to an editor after a rejection is considered very unprofessional. Some of the websites I visit when researching places to submit even have disclaimers specifically asking writers not to do that, which I can also understand. I’m sure a lot of writers out there don’t take rejection well, and probably respond with some very angry and crude messages. All of which is to say that I didn’t undertake this task lightly. I gave it some serious thought. But in the end, I decided that it had to be done.

Fellow writers of the world, I wrote this letter for all of us.


Hello, Apricity Magazine.

Earlier today, I received a rejection email from your publication regarding my short story: “Pentecost.” Unfortunately, I deleted the email, so I’m unable to respond directly to the editor. I sent that submission in July, which was five months ago. So your magazine waited FIVE MONTHS, only to reject my story on CHRISTMAS EVE?

I’ve put up with a lot of BS from publishers over the years, but this will not stand. There’s no reason why you couldn’t have waited a couple days before sending out that email. Christmas is a time when most people are spending time with family, trying to be positive about life. Many people struggle with mental health issues during this time. Authors are artists, and sensitive about their work; so sending a rejection on Christmas Eve of all days is one of the most insensitive things I can imagine a publisher doing to an author. It’s like spitting in someone’s face just before sucker punching him/her in the gut.

Now, I’m well acquainted with the harsh realities of the publishing world, blah-blah-blah. You still did an unnecessarily heartless thing. As for me, I’m a bit of a Scrooge, so make no mistake: I’m writing this letter not for me, but on behalf of all of the other writers in the world who have to tolerate this sort of treatment. It leeches the joy out of the very act of writing.

So in conclusion, allow me to say that I’ll never dream of submitting to you people ever again, and I’m going to make sure that all of my author friends—as well as everyone who subscribes to my various blogs, social media pages, content channels, etc.—know about this, and know how you treat writers.

Enough is enough, and it’s time that we authors let our voices be heard.


Luckily, there’s a happy ending here. In that five month interim, “Pentecost” was published by The Rye Whiskey Review @ https://ryethewhiskeyreview.blogspot.com/2018/12/pentecost-by-jesse-lynn-rucilez_2.html

Thanks for reading.

JLR

Ramingo’s Porch Issue #3 (Promo Vid)

June 2, 2018

Hey, everyone! Here’s a promo vid I made for Ramingo’s Porch Literary Magazine Issue #3:

Thanks for watching!

JLR

Ramingo’s Porch Issue #3

May 29, 2018

Hello, everyone! I’m proud to announce that Ramingo’s Porch Literary Magazine Issue #3, featuring my short story: “Blurring The Edge,” is now available for order through Amazon!

Check it out:

https://www.amazon.com/Ramingos-Porch-Issue-3/dp/1948920042

Thanks for your support!

JLR

Blurring The Edge (Short Story Excerpt)

January 30, 2015

October 19th, 2015.

Stark City, Oregon.

9:01 p.m.

Well, today was just like any other day. A struggle. Again. Another uphill climb with only the thought of getting it all over with to keep me going. And once the long day is finally over, I can get on home and relax the best way I know how. By playing with myself.

That’s right.

Some men like to go out after work. They like to hit the bars, hoist cheap beer, watch sports, drool over trashy women, shoot pool, and shoot the shit. I guess that gives them a reason to keep on keeping on. Know what I say? I say they might as well shoot themselves right along with the pool and the shit.

Can’t say just why, but none of that appeals to me. Bars and women. No, sir. What a waste of time. For me, from the moment my eyes snap open in the morning until the moment I sign out in the evening, my mind’s on one thing and one thing only:

Playing with myself.

Nothing else feels quite the same as playing with myself. Not that I don’t love my booze and an occasional joint, cause I most surely do. But then, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let me tell you how each day begins and ends so you’ll have a better idea of what I’m rambling about. The beginning is always shitty, of course. Goddamn alarm clock sounds like a warning buzzer at a hockey game. It sure does the job of waking my tired ass up, though. So as soon as I can muster the energy to haul the load below my shoulders, I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. After I finish my business with the commode I step into the tub and take the longest, hottest shower the water heater allows. Even in the summer. And to save time, I brush my teeth under the hot spray. Afterwards, I’m able to move like a man and not a zombie, which makes getting dressed a bit more pleasant, what with all the bending and twisting involved. Then, before I leave, I make myself a cup of instant coffee with plenty of sugar and cream.

Now, I have to admit, sometimes I wake up with a strong urge to play with myself before I hop in the shower. Especially when I was younger. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to stumble into the living room, plant my bare ass on the couch, and shoot off right there. Sometimes, I have to stand in the bathroom and tell myself over and over, “Wait ’til you get home, boy. Wait ’til you get home.”

So far, I’ve never caved in and done it before work, which is something to be proud of. I mean, after all, I’ve been playing with myself for a long time.

Anyway, let me tell you about work. I’d like to say I have a really interesting job, but I sure as hell don’t. It’s at a big old dirty factory in the Industrial District. Stark City Manufacturing. Job level two, full time with benefits. Been on that damned assembly line for thirteen years now. I put two cogs and one spring on each part that slides my way. These parts are then fitted to valves that attach to hoses in car engines. Foreign engines in slick foreign cars. The kind the kids all drive these days. The details are kind of boring, I guess, but the pay’s good and the work’s easy. Maybe too easy. That must be why my mind always drifts off to my one and only hobby.

Now, you might think a guy like me, who gets off on playing with himself so much, would keep it quiet. And you’re right. I do. For the most part. But once, a long time ago, I let my dirty little secret slip, and I’ve been paying for it ever since. Being a loner type who usually keeps to himself, the guys and gals I work with were always trying to goad me out of my shell. “Whaddya do for fun?” they’d ask. “How do ya unwind after work?”

I’ve always been a man of few words. Don’t like to talk. Don’t like goddamn comedians trying to be funny. Especially when I’m the punch line. So their questions bothered me. A lot. I dealt with it by just shrugging and saying things like, “Nothing much,” or, “You know, the usual.” But over time, it got harder and harder to hide my aggravation, and the more aggravated I got, the more they kept up their bullshit. And one day I finally lost it with this big dumb parts polisher everyone calls “Jethro” on account of him being such a moron. “Jethro” kept asking if I had a life outside of work, and what kind of “lame hobbies” filled up my free time. The bastard wouldn’t stop, and when I couldn’t take it no more I just blurted out the truth:

That I like to go home and play with myself.

Well. Big mistake. There was instant laughter all around, and the news of my confession spread like wildfire. In a matter of minutes, I became known as “the guy who spends all his time jerking off at home.”

And that’s still how it is to this day. Everyone on the crew winks and smiles at me. Sometimes they whistle or slap me on the back. “Betcha can’t wait to go home and play with yourself!” is all I hear, all day long. Sometimes they dig down deep into their vocabularies for the most vulgar expressions they can find to describe what they imagine I do with my dick every night.

According to the assholes I work with, I:

Grease it.

Polish it.

Spit-shine it.

Stroke it.

Slap it.

Spank it.

Yank it.

Tug it.

Whack it.

Beat it.

Jerk it.

Or jack it.

And, of course, to them my dick’s not a dick. It’s a hose, a monkey (my personal favorite), a pipe, a rod, a tallywhacker, a schlong, a dong, a wang, a pinky, a knob, a salami, a wiener, meat, and pud. I guess they’re too juvenile to use grownup words like dick, cock, or penis. They also have other witty little sayings, like: choking the chicken, engaging in man-to-gland combat, and, of course, taking matters into your own hands.

Anyway. None of them know shit from Shinola. They are right about one thing, though. All day long, every miserable second of every miserable hour, I can’t wait to get home and play with myself. And that’s the only way to accurately describe what I do. I “play with myself.” I absolutely do not grease, polish, spit-shine, stroke, slap, spank, yank, tug, whack, beat, jerk, or jack any part of myself.

I just play with myself.

Every evening when I get home.

Yeah. I first started playing with myself around the age of seventeen. I’ve heard that’s kind of late for most guys, but I really wouldn’t know what other people get up to. All I know for sure is that I discovered it right about the time I started my first job as a bagger at Stark Grocery World over in the Dibert District. At first, I was just messing around…figuring the whole thing out…then it got serious. Playing with myself started to feel really good. Insanely good. Like an addiction.

What can I say?

It didn’t take very long before I was hooked.

Now I do it almost every day. And when I’m not doing it, I’m sure as hell thinking about doing it. Those idiots are right about that. But what might surprise them is that I never play with myself on my days off. Don’t know why, either. Just never feel the urge.

Now, over the years I’ve built up some discipline about the whole thing. When I was younger, I’d rush through the door and start playing with myself as soon as I could. Like a man possessed. But now I never rush. I take my time and enjoy it. I savor it like a delicious meal I might never have the chance to taste again. Hell, at this point, it’s become an honest-to-goodness ritual.

So what I do, is this:

Once I get home, I walk through the door of my shit-hole apartment as calmly as possible, and set my lunchbox on the counter in my kitchen. I know what’s waiting for me in the living room but I don’t dare look at it. In fact, I do my damnedest to totally ignore it as I walk past. I go into my bedroom, strip off my dirty work uniform, and slip off my boots. And I take my time with all this, psyching myself for the big event. Thinking about it all day long builds up a shit ton of anticipation, a shit ton of excitement. I know I’ll be playing with myself very soon, and even though I’ve done it thousands of times, I still can’t wait to shoot off on my couch.

Shooting off really is the greatest feeling in the world.


“Blurring The Edge” is now available in Ramingo’s Porch Literary Magazine Issue #3:

https://www.amazon.com/Ramingos-Porch-Issue-3/dp/1948920042


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