January 15th, 2024 - The Beach House

Dear TNY,

First story of the year is “The Beach House”.

Waste of time.  Nothing in the story is worthy of anyone’s care. 

I just had a week off of working on this house.  My kids were here.  It contained multitudes.  Now, with them gone, I’m feeling the pressure to get this house work done and move off of these projects.  There are so many and I feel like I’m wasting time writing this letter to you.  Over a story that doesn’t matter.

So I’m going to stop.

To be clear:  I have shit to say.  Life shit.  Big feels these days and lots of them.  But I don’t have the fucking time right now. And later, when the evening comes and I can’t work outside anymore, I’ll be too exhausted to type them.

Here’s to the first story of the year.  An utter travesty.

Oh, I read “The Prophet From Jupiter” again recently.  And a piece of fiction by Poe Ballantine.  I had forgotten what good writers could do with good stories.  I’m glad they are out there, holding it down, while you publish shit that is underqualified to wipe one’s ass with.

Nick

P.S. I wrote this Monday but am publishing it Wednesday. Because life attacks. I can’t remember anything about this story other than the dad/daughter relationship was being hashed out over a stupid fucking house and a Bronco while the dad was dying. I really don’t get it. It being that you think this is literature. Especially knowing that beautiful writing is happening all the fucking time. I think you might actually be intentionally curating a list of garbage. The odds say that you’d have to find more great stories if you just picked randomly. So it’s like you are trying to make it this bad. Anyway, I have to go dig in the yard again today. So. Much. Digging.