Death and taxes

As Benjamin Franklin once said "In this world nothing can be said to be certain: except death and taxes". Well, this is to announce the figurative "death" of this blog.

With it I got to venture into the murky, albeit seductive, waters of the blogosphere for the first time, but all things come to an end, and now is the time to say goodbye.

Several things have happened since last year. I joined Scribophile where, encouraged by the feedback I received for my writing, I started submitting more of my stories to various publications with some success. I also got married and decided to start exercising, despite every fibre of my being screaming against any physical activity that doesn't involve sitting on a couch and binge-watching on TV shows (damn you gravity!).

This blog is very dear to me since it was the first place I ever published anything to be read openly from anyone with an internet access. It took a lot of courage for me to open myself up to the possibility of being laughed at by strangers (and acquaintances) and I like to think that it gave me the strength to keep exposing myself to such possible ridicule with my fiction.

Still, it represents a time that is now over for me.

Don't rush to take out the tissues though. I wouldn't leave you high and dry like that ;)
If you wish to follow me on my continuous journey for literary recognition, notoriety and the kind of success that would make E.L. James turn green with envy, you can!

My new corner on the internet is here.

Come by, drop a line, or don't. Either way, I'm very grateful you've been reading and would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the kind words of encouragement you have shared with me over the past years.

Drive safe, eat lots of fibre and protein and may the force be with you.

E.N.

Where have I been? Where have you been?

Seriously, where have you been? Me? I was around... Doing ... things. Watching ... stuff. Mostly though I was planning a wedding. Whose wedding? Well, funny you should ask. MY wedding! Yes, that's right. You heard correctly (partly because I screamed it to you through my keyboard), I said "MY wedding". I did it. I finally gave in and made an honest man out of him. Yay me!

Me and Pops heading to the church

It was perfect. No. It really was. Awesome weather and place aside, the people who came made all the difference. I have pictures of three very close friends splitting and sharing one single tissue to dry their tears, because none of them thought to bring an entire pack of tissues with them. Cause come on. They've been to so many weddings already this wouldn't be any different. Right? Right? Mwa ha ha ha!

They hadn't predicted the awesome scenery that made for a fairy-tale day. OR the fact that my father-in-law started playing the bagpipes as I came in a fishing boat escorted by my father, all dressed in white*. They didn't think the whole day could get any mushier (and put their used 1/3 of a tissue aside) until we shared our first dance, and then the waterfalls started all over again (Yes, don't try to deny it, I saw you in the video E.'s cousine made while no one was looking).

Add to that the delicious food and the best wedding DJ ever and you have yourself... drumroll....The Wedding of the Year!

*The church couldn't be accessed any other way.

All things have to come to an end though, and after the Wedding of the Year and the 5-day honey-moon trip, my -now- husband and I returned to our usual routine up in the North.

We did it!

I had no problem with the Routine per se, rather than with the realization it brought with it. Namely that now that I had no wedding to plan and fret over, I had no excuse to not be writing. Not that wedding planning ever was a sound excuse, but saying "Meh, I can't write, I have to plan The Wedding of the Year!" sounds better than "I just don't feel like it".

My almost 10-month break from writing did have its advantages though. I gained some distance to reassess what had happened that made me choke at the thought of a blank page and I decided to not let it get to me. As to what "it" is, I am not equipped to describe it (yes, I am that writer). What matters is I have now decided to stop being such a kitten and start writing as well as submitting again.

I have so far sent stories to four different kinds of publications: One literary teen nagazine, one speculative fiction anthology series, your average kind of Review-zine and a themed competition, and am expecting the rejections any minute now.  

Until then, I will just keep translating machine parts no one has ever heard of to pay the bills and dream of making it big. So big I won't have to check to see what a "Bördelflansch" is EVER AGAIN!

The awesomest place ever: Poulithra.

A literary pilgrimage

I caught myself nodding at Hank's words about what you need to be a writer, as he tries to change Becca's mind about going on a literary pilgrimage (whatever that is).

So, I thought I'd share his words of wisdom with you guys.

Enjoy:

The New Yorker rejects itself

Disclaimer: I repeatedly refer to myself in the third person in this post. It is not a sign of my megalomania, but rather a linguistic trick used to help with clarity during reading.

Last night I dreamt of receiving yet another rejection for one of my flash fiction stories. 

I remember the disappointment from my dream as if I was reading the thanks-but-no-thanks-email right now. It's a familiar feeling: the same that washed over the romantic girl who spent her pre-teen and teen years perpetually in love with some guy who never asked her to dance at the school parties.