Saturday, May 30, 2015


So far this year, I have made $100 on published stories. Not bad for a total of about 1400 words.

Two of the the three pieces were in my Unfinished file. I have beginnings or even finished pieces in that file that I haven't looked at for a long time. Some five or more years old. And I found them and reworked them and am making money for them. So, I'm digging and trying to finish or edit or both.

I don't have many new ideas. I have a lot of other things on my mind, and sort of stopped writing much for a good while. But I do have things, and, if you're a writer, you do, too, I'd guess. Take another look. Even if it's bad, it might have good bones. It was pretty cool to build new bodies for forgotten work.

I don't care if blogs are passe, or if nobody reads this one, or if I don't write here as much as I used to, other than to talk about writing, which is a huge part of life and will always be a major topic. But I need to make my world bigger. I need to have adventures again. I have good bones. It's time to rebuild the body again.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

story from extinct journal with no archives #1

As I mentioned in my last post, I am sad that so many online journals have closed. I understand. It's hard to maintain an online journal, which comes with no pay and a lot of work. Since there are no archives for some of these journals, I am posting some stories.

Parameters appeared in Barrelhouse in September of 2012. It was originally accepted by Dark Sky, but Dark Sky closed its doors shortly before the completed issue was ready to go live, and Barrelhouse graciously published the final issue online. Unfortunately, the story does not appear to be available on the Barrelhouse site. Parameters was on the longlist for the Wigleaf Top 50 Short Fictions of 2012, and is in my book.

Beth pushed the trip meter to zero when she got in her car. 18 miles was her limit. It was nothing she took for strange. Nobody knew. People drive alone in California.
The places she went were in range. Grocery store: .7 miles. Post office: 2.3 miles. Bank: 4.6 miles. Public swimming pool: 6.5 miles. She counted miles like birthdays, markers of significant passages. 18 was where she stopped.
Her former and only boyfriend’s birthday was January 8. He was rarely within 18 miles. Sometimes worked construction for a friend’s company for a few months to finance his next trip. She went with him once. To Tulum to explore the Mayan ruins. She flew home the second day. He sent postcards. Her refrigerator was a collage of Barcelona, Machu Picchu, Fairbanks, the Badlands, Ethiopia, St. Petersburg, Pittsburgh, Salzburg. The last one came from Auckland.
Beth –
Decided to stay awhile. Don’t know when I’ll be back.
Be well.
She put it with the others, under a magnet he brought back from Butte.
Sometimes her parents went places. She liked the postcard from Juneau best. The contrast of glaring snow and bluest sky. They always picked good cards.
Beth had never seen snow. She was born in Houston. Her family moved to San Diego when she was two. She went to community college 12.3 miles from home. When she finished, she got a job in the Registrar’s office. She got her own apartment a little less than 6 miles away.
She made friends online at travel sites. She subscribed to travel magazines and read novels that took place in Nepal, Lisbon, Uruguay. She told her online travel friends she loved travel but could not afford it. They sent postcards. Her refrigerator was covered. She taped them to her bedroom walls.
Beth did not need to go. The things she needed were in her perimeter. 18 miles in any direction was departure and return, same as any airplane.

The others went away. They would come back or not. Cards would be in her mailbox or not. On her refrigerator and walls or not. She would be here.

Thursday, May 7, 2015

gone away

I was clicking some of the links on the side to check if they still worked, and, sadly, many of the online journals that published my stories are no longer around. A lot of those pieces are in my book, but I like the accessibility of publishing in online journals. I founded and edit an online journal, and if I ever need to close down Corium, I will find some way to maintain an archive. I'm not trying to judge those other journals. I would just like for people to be able to see work that was published in journals that no longer exist on the internet. To that end, I'll try to put up some of those stories here occasionally.  But not tonight. Because I'm kind of tired. Do people even read blogs anymore? Should I do a Tumblr? Should I buy a website? Do these shoes go with this skirt? Have you tried that new breakfast thing at Taco Bell that has hash browns and stuff wrapped up like a little package in a tortilla? Does this color wash me out? Where's my phone?

I don't know the answers to most of these questions. Maybe I'll go to Taco Bell tomorrow morning and let you know about the folded breakfast sandwich thingie. I will also try to post a story.

(Oh, a journal accepted two of my stories today! The journal is called Whiskeypaper and the stories will be up in December, which is a long time to wait, but I guess I'll have to be patient. Anyways, I am very happy.)

Saturday, April 25, 2015


Sometimes I say too much. And I can't take it back. Like my last post. I took it down. It had some personal stuff that I should keep to myself. I am not good at keeping things to myself. Even though I pretty much handle stuff by myself, I tell people things. I am impulsive. It is not my best quality. Funny, I think one of my better qualities is being honest. But maybe I just read myself wrong, which I worry about sometimes.

Let's get back to stuff I can talk about without concern for privacy or anything. Probably the most awesome thing that has happened lately is that a story I wrote was chosen for the Queen's Ferry Press anthology of best small fictions for 2015, and another was a finalist. The one that was chosen was previously published in PANK in around 2010, but it's in my book so it was eligible. I am happy that it's included. No buts. I used to write more, and I'm glad it's appreciated. The other was never published, despite some efforts in that regard, so I am very happy about that, too.

I've been writing some lately. A few pieces of flash, a poem, and I'm working on one of the two novels I started quite a while ago. I'm kind of excited about the poem because it's sort of my first. I've written some bad poetry in my time - who hasn't? - but I like this piece. I submitted it to one journal. I don't know why, but I'm expecting to receive all rejections for the pieces I submitted. I'm having a tough time lately and I guess I expect the worst. Not that rejections are the worst, though I wouldn't mind an acceptance. I have no idea what will happen with that poem. That's ok. My perspective has changed quite a bit. I still care, but there are other things to care about more.

I don't have much else to say. I'm not going to apologize this time. I wish I had a cupcake. Maybe red velvet. I wish you all had cupcakes, too.

Saturday, March 28, 2015


It's so easy to become irrelevant these days. As a writer and otherwise. If you're not in people's faces, you pretty much don't exist. I try to write and get stuff published or, poof, I'm gone. I try to continue promoting the book, but it came out in June and so many other books have been published since then that mine is becoming a ghost. Which means I need to write stuff or I'm going to disappear.

Would disappearing be so bad? I'm going to be working on my novel, almost exclusively, I hope. A friend and I will meet once a month to go over 15-20 pages of each other's work. I am scared of not meeting the page limit, but I need to be held accountable. I think it might be the only way to move this thing forward, and this thing needs to be moved forward. I love writing flash fiction, but it's time to work on longer pieces. Even if nobody sees me for a while. 

Even though my book is becoming a dinosaur, some people are still taking a look, and putting up reviews at Goodreads and elsewhere. In the interest of reminding myself that I'm still relevant, here are a few things people have said recently:

She has a brilliance for illustrating social problems, particularly in gender roles, without explicitly stating them. Rather, as any good writer should, she simply creates heartbreaking, relatable stories that the reader can infer from subconsciously. It takes real talent to do this, and it still wouldn't be as impactful without the guts and heart that she puts into it. Comparing her work to that of Sylvia Plath or Flannery O'Conner does not seem overly generous, but appropriate. Becker is an exciting, unapologetic, and refreshing voice.  (Matt L.)


Becker has a unique voice. Her prose is simple, but packs a wallop of an intellectual and emotional punch. Beautiful stuff here. (Tara M.)

When writing fiction that is empathetic to common, emotionally trodden persons, comparisons to Raymond Carver and Amy Hempel can sometimes be an unfortunate inevitability. However Becker’s pithy, cut-glass prose stylin’ and profilin’ is really all her own, and If I Would Leave Myself Behind is an artful reawakening of the short-story form. Becker owns it. She is a champion for unique characters who hold no title.

At Entropy:
Lauren Becker’s If i Would Leave Myself Behind doesn’t make you feel like shit, she is like a friend telling an elaborate story, she isn’t trying to sell you anything.

I don't want to brag, but I don't want to be forgotten. It's good to be reminded that I'm still here. I'm going to work on the novel now. I want to be around for a while longer.