A man tried to break into my house. A few Wednesdays ago, around 2pm.
I heard noises, the squeak and thump of screen doors. The single mom upstairs or her two teenage boys, I figured, coming or going. Soon, other sounds. They seemed closer. Was my girlfriend home early, wrestling with the back door? Had my other roommate forgotten something—her wallet, her phone—and come back for it?
October 28, 2014 | Dorian Fox
Since I began submitting stories and essays to literary journals four years ago, I’ve felt scattered.
I’m not talking “scatterbrained,” though I often forget my keys, and I’ve mis-loaded the coffeemaker and flooded the countertop more than once. I mean something more existential, a feeling that because my writing is pending judgment in places around the country—sandwiched in two-foot stacks of manuscripts on editors’ desks, passing under the skimming eyes of undergrad readers, languishing in bloated Submittable queues—my identity, to some extent, is also tied up in those places, parceled out and spread paper-thin, too contingent on ...