Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia


“Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.” 
-E.L. Doctorow

A VidLit starts with a well-told tale. If you are reading this, you are likely a writer of fiction, creative non-fiction or a poet who is looking for a new outlet. Maybe you haven’t been published before, or not for a while, but you have something to say and a creative way to say it. We want to help. We want to give you a platform and help you with the sometimes icky task of promoting yourself. Our mission is to make fiction and creative non-fiction indispensable. It’s our belief that stories help our lives to make sense.

VidLit charges a nominal fee of $20 to join the VidLit writing community.

For that, each author gets:

  • One submission of 2000 words or less.
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  • A discounted price of $5 for each additional submission.
  • A chance to be published in our V-Zine.
  • The possibility of our turning your story into a VidLit or audio play.

Click here to sign up!

The Over-Privileged English Teacher

NEW YORK - MAY 04: Model/TV personality Heidi Klum attends "The Model as Muse: Embodying Fashion" Costume Institute Gala at The Metropolitan Museum of Art on May 4, 2009 in New York City. (Photo by Stephen Lovekin/Getty Images)

By Laura Cella

     My husband Jamie’s job as the CEO of a movie studio came with quite a few social, business, and political obligations. While these events were always glamorous, they were usually not a lot of fun. Well, not a lot of fun for me. Jamie networked and schmoozed and worked the room all night while I perched somewhere with a glass of Pellegrino and watched the Beautiful People in their native habitat. People seldom spoke to me; because I wasn’t in The Business I was all but invisible. Oh every once in a while someone would smile benignly or compliment my outfit, but generally I was thoroughly ignored.

Precious counselor

11879275_10153214652087725_3131375102200620186_oby Adam Greenberg

     On my sixteenth birthday, I received a most curious, wonderful gift from my neighbor, Adriano. He gave me guardianship of a wise, wish-granting counselor. The counselor was only 36” tall and immeasurably handsome, with glowing features, blonde hair rolling across his forehead as if without a care in the world, and a sparkly gold tan to his flesh. He always wore perfectly-tailored gray velvet trousers and jacket, with a living violet, which never withered, flourishing on the lapel. He spent most of the day in meditation on my mantelpiece, but when I returned home from my long, bitter days as a slave in the factory, he would spring up to greet me and give me all sorts of wise bits of advice and predictions, and occasionally grant me wishes. All he required for sustenance were four peas per day — simple, ordinary peas, the kind that grow everywhere in the countryside, even out of cracks in the sidewalk. By the power of his perfectly accomplished meditation, my counselor was able to subsist endlessly on this grub, only growing lovelier and wiser with each passing year, and never aging a day. He required feeding at the moments the sun made pivotal transformations in the sky, one pea each at sunrise, noon, sunset and midnight. Such was my devotion to my precious counselor that no matter the circumstances, I happily forced myself to his service, returning home from the factory at dawn and noon, and tearing myself out of bed at midnight each day to feed him.

The Movie Star’s Shoe


By Laura Cella

New York has some pretty big rats. (I mean the ones waddling along the stone walls of the Park at night, not the ones showing up on the front page of the Post.)  When my husband took a job running a Hollywood film production facility I presumed we had left New York’s rats, pigeons, cockroaches, waterbugs, and the rest of the gritty zoologica behind; we were going to live in ocean-fresh Santa Monica with California brown pelicans and Pacific spinner dolphins just outside our door.  It never occurred to me that rats would also share our So Cal paradise until our neighbor, Debbie, told me how relieved she was that Jean Pierre, another neighbor, was having his twenty-foot tall Washingtonia filifera palms pruned.  Not understanding, I asked why.  “Ask the tree guy when he gets here” she replied knowingly.

Lone Fang: or Why Some People’s Pets are not Ode-worthy


Click here to read part 1 of the series, The Philosopher King
Click here to read part 2 of the series, Minions’ Lament

By Rachel Artenian

This tale of woe I must relate
To save an innocent from my fate
Concerning a cat that is totally ruthless,
Penny the cat, who is practically toothless

Minions’ Lament

minions' lament image

Click here to read part 1 of the series, The Philosopher King
Click here to read part 3 of the series, Lone Fang

By Rachel Artenian

Meow, meow, mew, mew, nibble, nip, coo.
Psst, Gwendolyn, is that working for you?
Purrrrr, play, leap, scratch, paddle, wriggle my rear
Cecily, I don’t think anyone knows that we’re here.

There’s a new cat in town; nothing’s the same
He makes us so mad; Punim’s his name
They kiss him and coddle him and bedeck him with jewels
They fête him with sushi; he follows no rules.

We owned this house before he arrived
We strutted and feasted and both of us thrived
Now, no more kisses, no more creamed caviar
Punim, the prince, is the one shining star



by Barry Allen Herzog

     During late afternoons in November the sun would glide across the metal-coated building behind Howard Abrams’ office and cast a smear of copper on the wall opposite his desk. The smear would slide up slowly, melting, until it met the ceiling, bent and oozed inexorably in his direction.
     The sun always set before it reached him.
     By then the secretaries outside his door would be ending the tasks they had worked on since lunch and would be straightening their desk tops for tomorrow. Pleadings would whir through copy machines to be collated, stapled, affixed to blue construction paper and attached to forms directing the messenger service where they should be filed the next day in court.
     Abrams heard Martha take out her purse and remove the top of her lipstick with the little popping noise it always made. He pictured her sliding the red gloss carefully along her upper lip while he stared at piles of manila folders scattered on the floor, file cabinets and chairs around him.
     The intercom on his desk phone buzzed, insistent and shrill. He touched the ‘receive’ button.
     The voice of the new receptionist came out metallic, thin. “Your five o’clock is here.”

My Private Frida

by Harriet Reisen

        The other day I saw the exhibit of the Mexican artist Frida Kahlo’s garden at the Bronx Botanical Garden. It was a perfect day spent in glorious weather with a new friend. She called it a “play date.” I’d call it a good day to go on a pilgrimage, the kind Chaucer wrote of in The Canterbury Tales centuries ago.
         I’d been making pilgrimages to shrines of Frida Kahlo for a very long time, more than twenty-five years, from the day when from far across a slushy winter street a Frida Kahlo self-portrait on an Art in America magazine cover bewitched me. I crossed a network of intersections to get to the Out-Of-Town newsstand in Harvard Square to buy the magazine, although it was expensive, and I had never read it before. The subject of the cover story was an exhibit of Frida Kahlo’s work, at the Gray Gallery in New York. Like a magician’s stooge carrying out a post-hypnotic suggestion, I got on a Boston southbound train to see it.


Weather - Now a VidLit!

By Cathy Colman

“There is no snow pack. Only one year of water left.”—Governor of California, Jerry Brown

Sometimes the earth tells and retells her story.
Throws figurines, makes the doors stutter,
weathered wood flies apart like toothpicks.
We are not listening. We live on behalf of strangers.
We live on the surface. It’s the only place.
I can see grooves
from the water’s former sluice, from the riot where
the meadow confessed its obsession for red. Somewhere,