June 8th, 2026 - The Twice-Widowed Khala Helai
Dear TNY,
“The Twice-Widowed Khala Helai” is unfinishable.
I’m not sure you actually read it. I think maybe you said, “Push it to publication.”
This is obviously a case of the author needing to write a novel instead of a short story. So this strikes me as lazy on his or her part. It’s like, Well, I have a big idea, it’s a big idea, see, a huge family, lots of people to keep track of, but it’s a simple life in Afghanistan, a family life, and I need to establish all of these people as individuals, flesh them out, make them exist for the reader so that the reader is like a fly on the wall of a home, watching this family’s conflicts play out, and when the crescendo comes, the reader needs to know who everyone is, in their bones, so they can imagine all of this occurring, so what I’ll do is make it a fucking short story and make none of the characters or the relationships big enough stand on their own, I’ll build little to no handrail for anyone, and I’ll make the whole thing a jumbled mess that doesn’t represent anything because no matter how good I think the story is, as the author, that doesn’t mean shit to the reader if they can’t do anything with it, but I’ll do that whole short story move anyway and alienate my reader and TNY will publish it anyway because they don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.
And in that case, congratulations! Pulled it the fuck off! Snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, I say! Why write a full-ass novel that some readers (not me) would be interested in when you could just write a pitch for a novel and then publish it in TNY? It’s a brilliant strategy, and one I have seen before. From an ex. It was the first chapter of a book. But it revealed everything about the book. Cliffnotes-ed it. So what was the rest of the book gonna be about?
Well, I figure I should let you know how I’m doing. I want to say it’s been good or bad or whatever. It’s been rough. I don’t have direction. It’s a floaty existence thing. It’s a lot of shit. But it’s life. It’s always going to be more terrible for those who pay attention. And also more beautiful. There’s a superpower in seeing the beauty. But the superpower is seeing. It isn’t the ability to turn off the negative parts you see. Just to see at all.
My heart: I went in for a CT with contrast. My heart is beautiful. Fully functioning, healthy, athlete’s heart. The doctor called to let me know that I don’t need ablation as long as I keep the drinking down, which I am easily doing (still working on dropping more, will keep you posted). And I don’t need the meds after a few months. So all that worry was for naught. I did the work, albeit not timely, but it’s done now and going further than was recommended. So that’s good. I think we will find a happy place to land, but for now that’s a middle burner project. Doing more reduction is front burner.
My back: I got transferred to a new clinic. They don’t answer the phone. It’s fucking whatever. I have a herniated disc and they won’t do anything about it for a long time even though I’m two years into the suffering. So I’m just going to throttle back on that and let happen what needs to happen. Life shit is in the picture now and I’m going to face that instead.
My sanity: It’s repairing. I have better perspective now than I did half a year ago. I had a friend really help me out in the months of March, April, and May. That’s over now. Still feels like getting thrown away. Still feels like I was left out of that decision. Still feels like the impulsive decision that led to no sex after losing at pool (a story for another time), but that’s not on me. I get it. I’m upset by it. But it is what it is. I’m grateful I got anything at all. Deeply grateful. People out here being people. Likely the worst species on the planet being shiny sometimes.
I have been struggling recently though. Yes, I’m still on two beers a day. That’s not the struggle. That’s easy day. I don’t even think about it. No, the struggle is that I’m sad again. The doom is in the room again. But I’m more present and studying the doom. And, guys, it’s a big beautiful doom, nobody has seen doom like this doom, this doom, guys, they are talking about it, it’s a doom like no other doom, other countries wish they had this doom, this doom, it’s really something, this doom…now imagine I said all of that with gaped-asshole-shaped-lips, a cotton candy coiffure, and a tan the color of Cheetos. Thing is, I don’t think the doom will leave. I have years of this left. And that’s okay. I’m more okay these days. I got the Vermont job. That doesn’t start until later, but it will start. I got an email from an Antarctic recruiter about employment. And, I have a grip on the steering wheel again. Last Fall, I was in the trunk and the vehicle was being driven off into the horizon. Now, I’m at least in the back seat, if not the front passenger side. And that’s good. I’m not better. No, definitely not that. But what I am is moving again. Crawling little by little. Getting to a different place. Seeing different perspectives. And for now that’s good enough.
In fact, a few days ago, I was taking a walk on the beach. I was on Marrowstone Island, at the very north tip, and the tide was so low I could walk across the whole top of the island, just under the collapsing cliffs of compressed sand and giant trees, and there were seals and bull kelp and smooth, round stones and I even found the spine of a chiton, turquoise and like a little bat-erang. At the end of the walk on the beach, I turned inland, up a steep paved road and found a picnic table. I sat on top of it and listened to music and smoked, like, eight cigarettes in a row. The wind was blowing. The sun was out. And as I felt the breeze on my legs and looked out at the large mown lawn, the tall evergreens in the distance, the occasional car driving by, I was grateful for my life and for this time I have made for myself, and for the people that have helped me get here and believed that I was worth saving even though they couldn’t save me, them knowing I’d have to save myself. And most of them, they just waited for me to turn the corner. They didn’t push. They didn’t hassle or judge. They just fucking waited and commiserated with me. And that has made all the difference.
Well, that’s it for the fiction issue. Next week I’ll likely have the week off. That’s usually the case. So, I don’t know where I’ll be next week. Or what I’ll be doing. Or who I’ll be with, if anyone. But I believe I’ll still be here. Hopefully a little bit more tuned up, tuned in, and trying to figure out how to dance again. With abandon.
Nick
