My Legal Will

Death is no respecter of age, therefore I write this will on this the first day of March, 2010, in the twenty fourth year of my life.

The first orders of business are, of course, the funeral arrangements. I trust that these details will be followed meticulously by loved ones left behind.

To start with I would like to address my post life wardrobe. It is my wish to enter the incinerator wearing a white smock with a hole sewed in the middle to properly display my Tom Selleck tattoo with its nipple to nipple long mustache.

Secondly I want a man of African descent, preferably one who spent his childhood in the broncs, to do my hair and touch up prior to both the viewing and the incineration. I request this not as an advocate of equality, but because I want my limbs arranged in a particular gang sign which will be revealed to him via a sealed envelope.

Thirdly are the floral arrangements, if they can be called “floral.” I would like dried mangos to be scattered all over my body like falling rose petals, and around my neck shall be placed a garland of green tinted, under ripe bananas. This arrangement will be carried out for both the viewing and the incineration. I would like this task to be performed by some local orphans.

Number four; as indicated above I would like to be incinerated, body, fruit, tattoo, smock, and all. The only exemption will be my thumbs and my tongue, for reasons that will be revealed shortly. The following instruction is to be kept strictly confidential: I would like my dear sweet wife, AnneMarie, to secret my ashes into the funeral parlor and use them to fill the salt and pepper shakers of said house of death. This will be done in order to ensure that all attendees leave with a bit of me to take home with them. And as an added bonus, by virtue of the fruit content of my ashes, all will be cured of the constipation caused by the chili and funeral potatoes that will be served.

I believe that concludes the funeral arrangements, which leaves the accounting and distribution of all I possess to be dealt with.

First and foremost I would like to leave my inability to grow a decent mustache to Shad Seitz, who is ahead in that department.

Second is my sense of accomplishment. This I would like to leave to my dear cousin, Shane Tye, who, to my knowledge, has accomplished nothing.

Third and fourth are my senses of humor and direction which go to Christopher Tye, that he may laugh when he can’t find his way.

Fifth item shall be my utter sense of serenity and calm while in traffic. This I leave to my Uncle Mark, who needs it badly.

Number six: I leave my ability to count to Matthew Glaittli.

Tenth item is my conscience. I would like to leave this encumbrance, this tie to reality to Rachel Inkley, so that she can have a bit more room to breathe…

To Jeffrey Maw I leave the seventh item; my thumbs. What greater gift than an extra thumb for each hand? If our single set of thumbs set us apart from the lower life forms, than surely this act will set Jeff above all living, earth bound creatures.

Eighteen: I leave my tongue to Elizabeth Glaittli, so that she can say something that is not a movie line.

Last, but certainly not least I leave my children to my loving, beautiful wife Anne, to love, support, and pay for, without my help. Good luck and sorry babe. This is my last will and testament. Remember, I live on in you. Literally.

Mitchell Inkley

Rejection by Post

The reason for naming this blog the way I did was two fold (discounting the not so clever pun). Firstly I wanted a place to post the letters I write when I feel uninspired. I write letters when I'm uninspired and stories when I am (thus conveniently providing an excuse when the letters are sub par). So I write these letters and I put them in the post when possible. Obviously there was nowhere to send Audrey Hepburn's letter. I sent the letter to the Pope to the Pope. On the envelope I wrote:

The pope

The Vatican

(In the midst of Rome)

And I covered the entire thing in stamps. He never wrote back. I sent the one to Gandolf and wrote The White Havens for the address. Anyway, that is the first reason for naming my blog thus.

Secondly, which is to say first and foremost (figure that one out!), this is the blog by and about a writer who wants to do what he loves professionally and one who apparently refers to himself in the third person. One bain of aspiring writers are rejection letters received by post. At first they were all form letters. Then about the time I had to trade a paper clip for one of those big black paper clamps to keep them all together I got my first personalized rejection. A meager helping of acceptance has given me hope but the rejections keep coming and I've had four or five personalized No's. These personalized rejections are actually better because they are from quality magazines whereas the acceptance has come from a more local source. Anyway, some of the rejections were amusing and so I will post them here.

The first personalized rejection was for the Pope Letter:

Well Sir,

I've seen the application--and it says you have to have produced

at least three provable miracles. (I don't think financially bailing out this

magazine counts, though I'll testify if you give it a try.)

Another one was for a story called "Porcelain Hope":

I'll give you credit for this: After seventeen years

as an editor, this is my first talking urinal story.

(If only Hal had been so helpful to Dave in "2001: A Space Odyssey".)

For the same tale:

While I appreciate the story's sentiment,

I just don't feel the whole bathroom/talking urinal

thing is right for my magazine.

Another for the same:

The talking urinal did pull a smile out of me.

The few others I've had were more technical and less amusing so I'll keep them to myself. My rejection letter stack has not grown at the same alarming rate it used to. Were it that it was due to some acceptance, but alas, tis due to my own laziness. So, a goal. You will see more of these this year, personalized and posted.

CD's and Vinyl

My wife and I were both raised by construction working fathers. We were discussing nostalgic things the other day and I struggled to say what I wanted just the right way and then she said it for me. She said, "There is nothing like the taste of saw dust in soda." Sometimes I think she ought to be the writer. Nostalgia always hits accompanied by a feeling of loss, something that can not be reclamed. In this case childhood. You can work in the garage and drink saw dusty Dr. Pepper, but that doesn't bring back carefree days.

One thing that I miss are CD's. Yes, even with the convenience of my whole catilogue at my fingertips via iPod, I miss purchasing, unpackaging, and admiring a new CD.

My first CD (not counting Anamaniacs) was Hotel California. Owning the disc meant there were nine fewer songs I needed to request on 103.5, nine fewer songs to wait for with my index finger hoovering over the record button for my mix tape, and nine fewer songs that had some off-key DJ singing the last line. That fist CD was beautiful, they all were.

I remember browsing in Greywhale, waiting for the perfect album to jump out. I could always tell. It spoke to me. I held it again in the car, the plastic bag I'd carried it from the store in discarded on the passenger seat. There was something satisfying about picking off the plastic wrapping and struggling with those super adhesive stickers on either edge. The CD would stay unmolested in its case while I read the booklet front to back. Only then would I put it in the player.

When there were only CD's the order of the tracks and the mood presented by each one was important for a perfect record.

Then burned CD's became big, none of us realizing what we were losing. I remember being jarred when an odd song would play after a remembered favorite. It sucked to have Misery off the Beatles' Please Please Me end, to already be geared to sing along with Anna (Go To Him), and be rudely interupted by Abba or something.

By the time I realized something was lost it was too late (not that I could have done anything anyway). It hit home one day while I hung out with a cousin. We all had our own huge car case to keep the discs in one spot. It was sad to see ugly gray discs outnumbering the glossy albums. Then my cousin pulled all of his empty cases off a shelf and threw them all in a garbage bag. He pulled the sleeves from in front of the discs in his giant case and threw those away too. I panicked and was never able to do that myself. I'm still a bit mad about it when I remember.

Things got a bit better with the iPod. I mean the cover image would pull up with the song. But that's like drinking saw dust infested soda. It does not revive the art of the album. How many times did I buy a CD for one song and only a few days later that song was my least favorite? It was the best way to discover new music.

I'll never get my childhood back, or CD's, but I found something better. I'm obsessed with vinyl.  I went into Greywhale on a limb and came out with Mumford and Son's Sigh No More on Vinyl!  I had the same feeling of long ago, but with more class. I bought a record player from the DI, rebuilt it, and was set. Now I have everything from The Wing's Band on the Run to Johnny Mathis' Greatest Hits to The National's High Violet.