I’m a judge in an international short story contest and I’ve got to tell you, folks, people very often forget that there are basic mechanical skills to the work of writing. If authors could at least figure out if they are writing in the past, the present or the future and decide if they will use a third-person omniscient narrator, a first-person narrator or indirect free style and just stick to it for the entire two pages of the short story, that would be sensational. Otherwise, I get to read things like,

I leave the house and go outside. It was a beautiful summer day. “Isn’t it a shame to waste such a day on going to work?” I wonder as I get into my car. Twenty minutes later I arrived at my office.

There are also way too many platitudes (“we will all die one day.” – You don’t say! Gosh I had no idea) and idiotic generalizations  (“all disabled people suffer from feelings of inferiority.” – Take your projections to your psychiatrist, you condescending fool and leave me be.)

In general, I have to conclude that it would be much much better for people to read more and write less. Take a short story by a famous writer – I suggest Borges or Cortazar. Ray Bradbury would do, as well – and take it apart bit by bit. See what works and why, pay attention to every word.

You can’t produce anything before you learn the craft. And writing is craft. It’s work, just like any other.

One huge milestone I have achieved in the past couple of days was finishing my psychoanalysis. People always wonder how one knows that it is time to finish, and the answer is that it’s like love: when it comes, you’ll know.

In my case, it was trash cans. You know the trash cans one has to roll out for garbage trucks to pick up once a week? My trash cans (one for garbage, one for recycling) made me realize I had achieved all my psychoanalytic goals.

As I was rolling out the trash cans on Sunday evenings, I would feel such profound contentment, such ecstatic joy that I knew I had to be psychologically healthy. The analyst confirmed: finding happiness in normalcy is the goal. And so I’m done.

Psychoanalysis has been the most sensationally life-changing experience of my life, people. When I started, I knew there was absolutely no way I could afford it or find any room in my budget for the heavy cost. But I started anyway and somehow found a way to afford it without any great hardship even though this was at the time when every one of my credit cards was maxed out and out and out some more.

It’s unbelievable how much it helped, simply unbelievable.

P.S. If you need contact info of a very strong English-speaking analyst who works through Skype, write me an email.

No matter how long I live in this country, people never cease to come up with unexpected questions about my origins.

At Kohl’s, the cashier made the obligatory remark about my accent.

“I’m from Ukraine,” I said.

“Military?” she asked, throwing me off completely.

I doubt she was wondering if I’m a member of Ukraine’s armed forces. But what then? That I’m a “native” wife of an American soldier stationed in Ukraine? There are none, though.

So strange.

Klara was super nice to me today. She slept for 6 hours straight, which I think can be considered sleeping through the night. Bite me, pediatrician!

And now Klara and I are going shopping.

By the way, my phone installed some weird doohickey that makes the faces of people I know pop out into the screen when they want to tell me something. I suspect it’s Facebook Messenger, and I hate it because it’s creepy as hell. Imagine if I were watching porn on my phone – I’m a 40-year-old woman, after all, I’m about to enter into my sexual prime, and then my mother’s face popped out at me in the middle of things. I’d become a mental invalid!

Facebook, you suck.

I was planning to indulge in an existential crisis of massive proportions but it’s hard to do that while running around with a screaming infant in my arms. So the existential crisis will have to be put off. Maybe I’ll do one at 45.

Please congratulate me by sharing the reason that keeps bringing you back to this blog. I will enjoy reading your comments.

And let’s celebrate! I will keep you updated throughout the day on how the festivities are proceeding.

P.S. It was not easy to find a picture for this post. Go to Google images and see for yourself, it’s pathetic. Most pictures are so self-conscious and stilted that it’s simply sad. “Forty is still young! Forty is the new 30! Forty is 18 with 22 years of experience!” My heart goes out to the poor bastards who are so tortured by the knowledge they are turning forty.

If you have time for some interesting reading today, here are two articles that I thoroughly enjoyed.

A book review which reminded me what makes book reviews worth reading. Check it out, it’s both funny and profound.

And a really great article on the reason why menstruation exists. Loved it!

I’m a happy person today because I finished editing my article, submitted it on time, got Klara to fall asleep, and can catch up on my entertainment reading.

So which presidential candidate has the greatest number of negative and the smallest number of positive stories published about them?

The answer is under the fold.

Continue reading “Riddle: Which Candidate Gets the Worst Coverage?” →

Forget the ridiculous toilet issue that is stealing the crown of utter inanity from the “Christian pizzerias refuse to cater gay weddings” fiasco and note how terrified these students are of any confrontation. If they find it impossible to say “You are wrong” to somebody who is obviously wrong, how do you think they react when I tell them “it’s la ciudad, not el ciudad” in class? And how often do you think they roll out a “But that’s my opinion!” in an earnest belief that this should immediately put an end to any questioning or discussion?

I really hate it when people respond to the news that my friend has lung cancer with an eager and hopeful, “Does he smoke?” This is such a pathetic attempt to exorcise the fear of cancer through a pitiful exhibition of “I’m a good boy / girl! I don’t smoke! This won’t happen to me! Please, pretty please, soothe my anxiety and tell me this won’t happen to me!”

I understand that cancer is scary but I wish people would spare me these displays of emotional neediness.

And by the way, the type of cancer my friend has is not related to smoking. Which I’m getting tired of saying to people and seeing their hopeful faces crumble as they realize that this particular ill person can’t be used to soothe their anxiety.

This Pope is such a joke. First he butts into the US presidential election and then crabbily tells people who ask him about this weird behavior crazy.

Francis is the Justin Trudeau of Catholicism. All he cares about are photo ops, and he pursues them with every ounce of energy of his shallow being.