Why Trying to Get Published Sucks

Why Trying to Get Published Sucks

A. C. Wyatt

I could’ve started this post off on a happier note, but a) no, b) it does suck, and c) the title is catchy, and the first thing people tell you about writing is that you need to hook your reader in.

But here goes: about two months ago, I finished my first novel. It took over a year to write (although almost half of it was written over the summer), and in its rough form, clocked in at almost 70,000 words. I’d survived writer’s block with most of my sanity still intact.

writer's block

I’d made it through those marathon periods of inspiration that left my fingers stiff and sore.

seriously, though

I had made it.

aye macarena macarena macarena

I was happy—ecstatic, even, because my problem was finishing stories and the longest original piece I’d finished before that was eight thousand words long—and finally, my manuscript was complete. Finished. Fini. Terminado. Finito. I was done. I felt…

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4 Dangerous Lies People Tell About Writing

4 Dangerous Lies People Tell About Writing

A. C. Wyatt

“Oh, I could never do that. I’m not creative enough.”

I hear this one a lot, and it makes me sad.

Yeah, maybe you’re not “good enough” to become a New York Times bestseller. Maybe you’ll never get published. But writing doesn’t have to be about those things. You can just write for yourself. If you have something you want to write, be it an epic fantasy novel or a short fanfiction, do it. You don’t have to be the next Shakespeare or John Green or [insert idol here]. You don’t have to write for anyone but yourself. If it makes you happy, that’s all you need.

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Kartoffel’s fate

Kartoffel’s Fate

The New England miser looked at the corn and saw gold. He threw it in his casket.
The French whore looked at the radish and saw a ruby. She threw it in her jewelry chest.
The German priest looked at the humble potato in her burlap robe and he threw it in his stomach.

But first:
The priest placed Kartoffel, as he called her, on the chopping block.
Accepting her fate, stoically she waited. The very image of a young nun clutching her bible while extolling God, she represented.
With a sigh she surrendered.
“I forgive you” was her last thought.
Above her head, a flash; down struck the shiny blade.
Split in two, she expired.
White and pure under her burlap robe, she was.
Indifferent to her glowing virginity, she was peeled, rinsed, cut and boiled.
In the priest’s stomach, to Kartoffel Heaven she ascended.


Kartoffel: German translation for potato.

One Last Time


3151873628_0747125324_bStan came into the office, bursting with his usual insufferable enthusiasm.

“Bad day, Doug?” he prodded, with mock sincerity.

Doug was wearing an expression of pain and disappointment as he looked through his reports.

“Shut up, Stan,” he replied dryly without moving his eyes from his screen.

“I can see you’re very busy, but I wonder if you could just clarify something for me. I heard a rumor…”

Doug sighed audibly. Stan wasn’t going anywhere, that much was clear. He stopped what he was doing, leaned back in his chair, and gave Stan his full attention, hoping that Stan would go away after unloading whatever insult he came to deliver.

“A rumor… and?”

“Yes, I heard a rumor that you sent a rep down there a while back. Didn’t go too well for him, did it?”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” replied Doug, wincing visibly at the…

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Wine is life

They had practiced the run many times.

In France, wine is a very important part of life. The wine is kept in the deepest, strongest, and most secured part of the house. Wine is well protected and cared for. There, cellars are built to protect the wine.

This was World War Two. The cellar was stocked with survival supplies. The big house had several cellars. The wine cellar was the deepest and the most secure. The house was close to the cathedral, a location that potentially offered some protection. Surely, warplanes would avoid bombing the cathedral. When the sirens started wailing, the young couple was ready. They ran down to the cellar automatically in a matter of seconds, without even thinking.

This young couple was my parents. My mother was pregnant with me, her first baby. As a pregnant woman, she was entitled to more ration tickets then the regular civilians. Food was strictly controlled by the Nazi regime and difficult to obtain. Smokers exchanged their food tickets against cigarette tickets. If you knew a tobacco user you could trade your tobacco ration ticket for their food ration tickets. Amazingly, some would rather smoke than eat! However the problem was still to find the food. A ticket gave you the right to buy, but it did not mean that the foodstuff was automatically available. Before dawn, riding their bicycles in silence, my parents went to the fields on the outskirt of the city, to look for some forgotten vegetables. This activity had a name: “hamstrac” not translatable in English.

This time, the sirens went off in mid-morning. My parents ran to the cellar. A bomb, missing the cathedral, fell on the house. They were American bombs, big ones! The wine cellar barely held up. All survival supplies were gone. The dust was unbearable. It was almost impossible to breathe. By some miracle the wine bottles were intact. Overwhelmed by the heavy dust, they had no choice but to drink the wine to survive. By the light of a candle they drank, thanking God to be alive. It was there, in the wine cellar, where they found their salvation, drinking the wine and waiting to be dug out, it was there that they decided on my name. In the wine they found their salvation, and I receive my name. I was named after the saint patron of wine: Morand.

People were surprised to see a young couple emerge from the rubble, covered with thick dust, laughing and signing and completely drunk.

Three months later, my mother gave me life on the Swiss border, which offered better protection then the cathedral of Strasbourg.

St. Morand

Saint Morand is particularly revered in throughout the Alsace, Burgundy and Champagne regions of France, and also the Rhine region of Germany.

Famous for:
St. Morand spent most of his time in Germany, and even though he was a “spoilt little rich kid” (Morand came from a wealthy family), he choose priesthood as his profession and became a Benedictine monk.
Morand is one of the less well-known Saints, maybe for the fact that his biggest accomplishment was that he lived through Lent off a single bunch of grapes.

Celebrated on:
June 3rd is known as the feast day for St. Morand.