So what is it? I was driving to work, where I speak to strangers all day on the phone, and it hit me. The road is paved. The road is the way. It is the path that has been taken and leads somewhere, and for some reason, that means something. The sum of the parts isn’t the most interesting aspect of the equation. The parts are the interesting part. The fact that someone traveled this route before. And in the modern age, it means so much more. With each route there is so much history, so much meaning, that its almost amazing. Or IS amazing, I suppose. If you’ve ever driven to Florida, or New Orleans, or California, from Massachusetts, as I have.

The road is a LONG WAY. And the most amazing thing about it is that it has been put together by people. Frequently I stare at the skyline, or tenement houses, or a park I’ve driven by seventeen different times, and I think this has been done by people. People have completed this, and on some level, or all levels, its amazing. We take a lot for granted, traipsing through our daily bullshit, but the reality is that every iota we see every day has been created by a person; or persons. Nothing just happens. That’s kind of cool.

The selection announcements are set for October, but really November, because its been pushed all the way to October 31 (incidentally the day before my birthday). If you’re a writer, you know the six stages of submissions:

1. Confidence

You have written a brilliant piece of art destined for greatness, film adaptations, and translations into eastern languages you didn’t know existed.

2. Impatience

Three whole days have passed and there has been no correspondence. What are they doing over there? Updating their facebook statuses? Hanging out on Google+? Spotifying their tweets?

3. Anger

Yes, you thought that email from the editors was going to congratulate you on their acceptance and forgot they always email to thank you for your submission and you can expect a response in 1.7 million years.

4. Anxiety

They like me, they like me not. They like me, they like me not . . .

5. Apathy

Who cares if they accept this story I rewrote seventeen times and is based on repressed memories from my disturbed childhood? I’m going to play some Madden.

6. Amnesia

Huh? What submission?

Anyway, to alleviate writers’ collective anxieties, the good folks made this graphic cloud of all the titles. Only problem is I CAN’T FIND MINE. The title is “Resurrected Carousel.” If you’re like, at work and doing nothing and really good at Where’s Waldo, let me know if you see it.

The Near North End

The manager at
Mauricio’s market
Was released on
Personal recognizance,
Wearing a T-shirt with
The image of a
Horse. He thinks
He’s big and bad
With his dog, Satan
Spray-painted on the
Front steps. Cruelty
To animals,
Three counts of
Vandalizing property.
Assault and battery
With a dangerous
Weapon, a pit bull
Named
Navy.
Large
Black
Letters on the
Building’s
North side read
Bitch
On the
Roof.
Quasi-
Blasphemous,
Bizarre, behavior,
According to court
Records. Many witnesses
Appeared shocked she
Refused medical
Attention, a crowd
Gathered to watch her
Heading East
On Phillips Avenue
Armed only with
A can of
Black
Paint.
Sprayed
The dog directly
In the face. She
Couldn’t climb a fence
To get away, and walked
back toward the police officers
Who promptly arrested her.
The pit bull named Navy
Taken into custody,
a blank stare on
her face. The
Entire incident
a hurled
Epithet,
Obscene
Religious
Phrases,
The hectic
Scene a
Rampage
in the
Near
North
End.

If you don’t know much about found poetry, these are some pretty good definitions. I haven’t written a poem in like a decade, but maybe I’ll rustle one up. Maybe it’s easier to find one then write one? Probably not. The bathroom stalls in the bus station might be a good place to start looking, though.

I also skipped my allotted daily 3,600 seconds of sunshine to attend a training during lunch. The training was very useful and helpful but it didn’t provide me with any dosages whatsoever of Vitamin D.

Upon leaving work (late), there was a traffic jam that rivaled a poorly played game of Tetris. And while the city of Boston had remained thoroughly sunny throughout the day, dark gray thunderheads had now closed over most of the state, pelting me with rain as I sprinted for the bus.

When I arrived at home I realized the top on my Jeep had been left down, soaking the old coffee cups, empty bags of peanuts, gym clothes, books, and old mail piled all over the interior of my car.

At this point I looked up at the sky, and this is what I saw:

I don’t know if you think you’re funny or what, Universe. But you kind of suck lately.

But I was pretty pumped today when Whiskey Disks dropped me a line. What is more bad ass than drinking stone cold bourbon? Maybe bear fighting. But that’s about it.

I bought a bottle of Johnny Walker Gold at the state liquor store in New Hampshire a couple of summers ago that I’m still waiting for a reason to drink. I’m kind of impressed with myself that I’ve been able to refrain from drinking it for this long, but that might just be because my good buddy Tim hooked me up with a bottle of 12 year Macallan for being in his wedding.

Hopefully by the time I’m celebrating something fancy, I’ve procured myself a set of these. Maybe I’ll just start chilling all my beverages with rocks. Beer. Lemonade. Root Beer. H2O. v8 juice. Coffee. Tea. Red Bulls. So there’s a comprehensive list of stuff I drink.

I imagine these stones are special and magic, so I’ll refrain from throwing some gravel from my driveway in the freezer, although that might be a fun idea anyway.

I have to say, Bear Grylles was unfortunate that he drew the koala in early rounds. And the Grizzly over the Polar Bear is a Butler-esque sort of upset. But that’s why they play the games.

My bane, my chariot.

That means I spend about fifteen hours a week, give or take, cramped in a bus seat. I’m over six feet tall, so my ride typically takes three shifts to stay comfortable.

My first move is to plunk into the seat, depress the foot rest, and cover my head with my blanket like a parrot, so as to enable sleep and discourage other passengers from wanting to sit with me (though I refrain from the jerk move of occupying the neighboring seat with my bag). About halfway through, I turn to the right and use the opposite foot rest, curling into a semi-fetal position, with the back of my head resting against the window. The finishing move is a slight twist, usually performed while half-conscious, rotating the hips onto the seat with the side of my head cradled between the seat and the window, relaxing for the final twenty minutes of the ride into a position of maximum comfort that is probably very, very bad for my spine. I’m also pretty sure these positions guarantee certain death if the bus is involved in an accident.

[Read Roy Lisker's Bus Paradox]

This is all endured amidst a din of blaring headphones, six a.m. cellphone conversations, and, on particularly terrible days, screaming children.

When I started the job I commute to, I was under the impression I’d get a lot of writing done on the bus.

As severely ugly as they are uncomfortable.

At first it wasn’t so bad. I managed to finish a practically a whole novel during my commute last November. But lately I don’t have to the hear to lug my laptop into that great mechanical caterpillar. Which is too bad, because at three hours a day, fifteen hours a week (I don’t even want to tabulate beyond that) I could be crushing some serious words. Should be crushing some serious words. Instead, I’m playing Rotisserie Chicken on the bus seat, praying for solitude and sleep, that feeling of transcendence when you pass out and dream your way through the whole commute, like a teleported piece of space junk in a bad sci-fi movie.

So that’s why my commute sucks.

The Dagger Quick is a novel coming out this May from Brian Eames. I’ve blogged about it before, and don’t think my review can top the one Publisher’s Weekly just posted:

Thoroughly researched, fast-paced, and tense, this coming-of-age adventure doesn’t sugarcoat the dangers of the era, even as it embraces the mythical glamour of a pirate’s life.

He teaches history and has three sons. He lives in Atlanta. Those are a few reasons why he’s awesome. But a third reason is that he wrote this book. He sat in front of a computer screen for longer-than-recommended periods of time. He painstakingly researched real pirate lore instead of making things up about Black Pearls and channeling Keith Richards.

Why not wait? Because pre-orders in large part determine a book’s initial marketplace prestige. I won’t go into the details of the shadowy world of publishing, but think of it this way: A novel by a debut author you’ve never heard of is like Cinderella. She’s kind, beautiful, and full of potential, but still scrubbing the floor.

It needs a fairy godmother.

That can come in all shapes and sizes. Awards, a favorable review by someone with industry clout, a film option.

But it starts with pre-orders. Any debut author is shooting  the moon, but strong pre-order numbers are like stacking the deck. They’re like a first round bye in the playoffs. The prince still needs to show up with the glass slipper, but Cinderella has to get to the ball in the first place.

Here’s what I’m proposing with all these mixed metaphors: If this looks up your alley, don’t wait until it comes out. Pre-order it now. Pre-order if you like pirates or monkeys. If you like history. If you want to help a guy realize his dream. If you don’t want to buy me that beer you owe me.

Send Brian Eames to the ball.