Submission

I make a lot of music compilations. Or I used to. It gets harder and harder to find people to hand them to. It’s a cheap-assed birthday present. And the only other occasion it’s suitable for celebrating is “Happy Your Taste in Music Sucks Day.” It came to a head when I couldn’t think of a single acquaintance to offer my Indie Songs that are Kind of Spooky mixtape. So I left it on a seat at the train station. It was kind of exciting actually. And I kept doing it. Park benches, toilet cubicles, beside the tea-bags at Super-Valu. Every time I made a CD I’d drop it off. It felt very freeing, not having to wait for feedback or explain why I put We are Underused onto each and every mix I’ve ever made.

When the compilations dried up (I do only own 12 albums after all) I began recording myself reading passages from my much rewritten novella Oh Pappy, You So Precocious!, continuing to drop the CDs off in random locations. Felt so good to be getting things out there, you know?

Until this morning. A parcel arrived, local postmark. A sheaf of paper bound in wallpaper and bailing twine. One hundred and thirteen tightly hand-written pages, covered with tea-cup stains and smelling slightly of cinnamon. My novella. Complete and unabridged.

As I combed the pages for signs of origin, the telephone rang. A relaxed, measured voice from Random House informing me that they’d received my work and were interested in meeting to talk about possible publication. Of course I did what anyone would do in that situation: hung up the phone and ran to the bathroom to vomit.