If Ezekiel could see it, why not me

(A Chinese dwarf, courtesy of the Met; my alter ego) As a follow-up to my August 4 posting, I’ve done it, revisited my not-yet-published fiction. Deleted: several paragraphs on what a dumb schmuck I am. Yesterday I submitted one of the revived stories to a contest and charged the fee. Thank you, Chase. On the 21st of I sent off another of these revived stories. Not for a contest but there’s money if they take it. Two stories now out there, waiting. Last month I pulled together a novella I’d started again years ago. Found a reader who has a great eye. So now it’s ready to go asking for what it's worth. It's a delight. Two stories and a novella. Then a novel is collecting dust, all the dust there is in my Cloud. The one solid piece of advice I was given in grad school was: Leave New York. I don't belong here. I never have. I wonder if I'd feel better about my work if I'd moved. I'll be back to this blog in September. Ezekiel? Read the skies. Was he in pain?

Any Other New Yorkers Notice? COPYEDITOR NEEDED!

Hoorah for recycling and hoorah-with-a-bullet for the continued attention paid to recycling by the New York City Department of Sanitation. But someone in the department's Central Correspondence Unit needs to hire a proofreader.

Yesterday I received a mailer detailing expanded criteria for types of PLASTICS. Also, PAPER. It can be ripped from a can and recycled (we are reminded). Hoorah and no argument with that.

But the mailer, sent to each and every 8 MILLION GIVE-OR-TAKE of us was printed as being "First-Class Mail." It wasn't first-class mail. Someone in the department must have noticed, and god knows just who had to manually cross out, with a marker, that portion on each mailer.

How long did it take to cross out 8 million "First Class Mail"s? I thought it was funny, not a hugely costly gaffe, just a gaffe under the watchful eye of Bloomberg who spends so much time instructing the police to stop and frisk, especially to stop and frisk nonwhites. He wasn't aware of his schnoz or that which was under it.

I like to imagine pizzas brought in and disgruntled teenager, children of city workers. I like to imagine a weekend devoted to correcting the mistake, having to send out a team to find an all-night Staples for more markers, someone paying for them himself.

HIRE A COPYEDITOR. If you can't find a good one, who is "thoughtful" (to quote an art director talking about my work), be aware I am here, at your service. No pizza required. (It's hard to proofread yourself, by the way. I know.)