He wasn't the biggest supporter of my writing, and he often said I was being unrealistic. But I think he just realized how money caused so much stress in his own life. He worried as parents do. He told me repeatedly in the months since I graduated how he'd thought about going to art school because he wanted to do nothing but paint. Each time the story changed a little bit, but it always ended with the same result: it wasn't the "adult" thing to do.

But I look at his life, his stress over debt, and the pitfalls of owning his own business because it was more realistic than pursuing his dream. And I think about how he rarely had time to paint for as long as I was old enough to see. And I think about how already in my head I've spent my next ten paychecks; I'm already addicted to my salary. And I think about Death of a Salesman's Biff's and Happy's relationship with their father Willy Loman and I can't help wanting to drop everything and write. Just write. Just do what I want to do because if I don't now, I never will.

How would I make him more proud? To quit my job and follow my dreams or to put my childish, artist ways behind me once and for all? I suppose making him proud doesn't matter so much anymore. When I write something well, or when I do something impressive at work, I appreciate compliments and commendations from my male friends and co-workers. But when I fictionalize and picture those exchanges in my mind, it's never in words but in smiles and hugs, even when signs of affection are clearly inappropriate for the situation. I recognize this could be some sort of supressed longing, and I know I can trace it to my relationship with my father.

I don't think I'm ready to be writing about this. There's too much, too soon. "Boy Feminist Comes of Age" was based with much exaggeration on feelings and conversations I had with my father both recently and long ago. I would have liked him to read it. I was nervous about him reading it. And I'm sure he didn't get a chance to read it before he died.

This month I have works of fiction in Planet Relish and Jackhammer. The relatively new publication Planet Relish consists of speculative humor, meaning I should be right at home there. Still, after selling them "Paths to Autonomy" (published last month), I couldn't help thinking it was some kind of fluke. But now, after they've also bought "Life and Liver," a humorous piece about souls and Hell and journalism (written over a year ago), I no longer have any doubt: editor Mark Rapacioli must have no taste whatsoever over there.

And in Jackhammer, you can find "The Great Virtue," a fable, published this week and in the archive for the rest of the month. And then there's "The Unseen" (to be published on the 12th) which was rejected by one editor who said she "didn't like the character this story is about." And you won't either. Who would've thought a stalker story on the subject of altruism would become my 25th sale to Jackhammer?

I will be away from my computer for long periods at a time throughout this month, so please accept my apology in advance for slow response times to emails.

Filed under Journal, Prose and Poetry, Vanity Smurf
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