This is the story

of the writer who wrote a book. And then submitted that book. And that book was accepted. And now that book has a home. A place of it’s own. The writer is so happy. Happy for her book. And also just plain happy. She keeps laughing deliriously and trying new food. Chicken feet and satan. And baked oysters. And yellow beets covered in sea salt and burnt sugar and dark coffee grounds.

This is the story where you say out loud to yourself

someday I will be published

and today is that day.

Oh my fucking god.

Yes.

Noemi Press

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This is the story

of the paper on the calendar and the network on the phone and the hair in the sink and the cookies in the fridge and the grounds on the counter and the beer on the porch and the bacon in the oven and the crumbs in the butter and the hole in the floor and the water on the stove and the dirt in the sheets and the books on the bed and the porn in the kitchen and the radio on the island and the scotch tape on the ceiling.

The writer works from home.

3-11pm.

And Then

the writer quit her job. Her day job. Her restaurant. Not her restaurant. The restaurant that pays her five dollars an hour plus tips. Three days a week. She’s been there four years and now this Saturday is her last day. She turned in her kazoo. She emptied her flare onto the pavement. She fell on her knees.

For some reason they don’t put the mats down during dinner shifts. And she slipped and fell. To her knees. Bruised her knees. Cut her finger. Quit her job.

The writer got an ongoing freelance gig that’s fun and fast and pays about as much as a Saturday on a busy brunch patio. And then the writer remembered her old career as a figure model and put her name on some bulletin boards. And the hourly rate is considerably higher than it was nine years ago while the writer is still paying under a thousand a month for her two bedroom. And the writer has a small part in a small movie that will pay some real money, small. But, real.

There’s a million ways to not die.

It’s just me. No kids. No mortgage. No car.

There’s my husband. He drives a Honda. He has some jobs.

Two cats. Take pretty good care of themselves.

Student loans don’t scare the writer anymore.

Nothing really scares the writer. She’s been to the bonfires and seen all the lights. She’s got salt on the rim of her tin can and she’s eating her lunch out of a brown paper bag.

Caution. Wet floor.

This is not the story

you expected. It doesn’t start at the beginning. There’s no music. There’s no soft opening. There’s no early bus ride through the fancy part of town. There’s no spirit. There’s no idea. There’s no reason to be taken seriously.

She makes a game of collecting sex toys. One from every city.

She has a dull pain down the right side of her body.

She writes about her mother.

She eats banana peppers and quinoa.

She likes putting things down. Putting things down and looking at them is like her favorite thing.

God bless America.

This is the Story

Of a writer who spent the morning sneezing and slurping expensive coffee and searching the inter webs for queer hash tags and cheap flights.

This is the story that jumps back in time to last night when the writer went to an expensive diner with her two writer friends and together they sipped Miller High Life and couldn’t finish their hash browns.

And it’s pride. Happy pride.

The writer writes about all the mornings she has wondered what it would be like to kiss LP. In a dark high school gymnasium.

Open mouth. Lots of tulle.

This is the Story

of a writer who calls herself a writer.

The writer is also a waitress, an intern, a performer, a playwright, a teacher, a wife, a pet owner, a renter, a feminist, a sister, a driver, a fool, a clown, a wife, a gender, a size, a name.

The writer jumps time to tomorrow. To 4pm therapy. The writer looks forward to Wednesdays. Wednesdays are her favorite days of the week.

The writer looks forward to speaking to someone. The writer has taken a liking to self care; haircuts, side projects, cover letters, resumes, yoga, acupuncture, cupping, therapy, produce, sleep, tarot cards, temporary work, reading, writing, HBO comedy specials.

The writer jumps back to tonight. Sarah Silverman at a low volume. Lots of open tabs. Some unopened mail. The plunk of kitchen water.

And the clicking of keys.