I sent an email to Tyrant Books. An independent publisher in New York. No make-up, all guts. They said they're not taking queries from writers without agents. Like me. I asked a mentor about this. He said write them anyway. Make it spark, light a fuse. See if you can open the door. Whisper fireworks through the cracks.
So I did. And Tyrant wrote back. Said to send The Alt Dad. So I did. Haven't heard back. Kate says patience. Like my mom always instructed, I followed up. Instead of patience. Did my riffs tickle your ivories? I said. Siri autocorrected ovaries. Still no word. Door open? Door closed?
Yesterday Kate texted me about an earthship house for sale in Guatemala. I said Yes. Absolutely. No questions asked. Houses and land for $20,000. That’s god talking. Kate says the place is 4500km from our family in Minnesota. Yes but solar panels and a lake and a volcano and mountains and we don’t have to live under the red lights of Target or Kohls.
Four hours north of Guatemala City. We’re thinking.
Coffee. Grindstone. Write. Keep putting yourself out there. Keep pushing. Message people. Knock and the door will open. A man from a brain research foundation asked if I would be the executive director. Use my word jiu jitsu. I said I'd have to see the offer on paper. He’d said he’ll be in touch. If I get the job, Mouse says we can move to Guatemala.
Doors are opening.
The baby was fussy last night and Mouse was trying to calm her down and I was reading a book by Terence McKenna called True Hallucinations and he says that language is a door. Says a bunch of really far out trippy stuff like language is the word made flesh or vice versa. It’s so cerebral-swirly DNA-helixed trippy I can't remember.
But doors are for sure opening.