writer
Woke early, made a quick run to the grocery store for juice and coffee, then sat down to write.
Revisions, revisions.
Typing one handed now, a certain kitty having decided to take safe harbor from tonight’s thunderstorm by stretching across my lap.
Better there than under the bed.
Okay. So a pretty good week. Found out my story “Delivered” is to be included in the 2014 Grey Wolfe Press Storybook anthology, then learned “Cat and Mouse,” was accepted by the Crossborder Journal.
If that wasn’t enough, received a letter in the mail this afternoon from the publishers of Falling Star Magazine notifying me that my flash piece, “Naiad,” had been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
It’s my fourth nomination for a Pushcart. Have to thank Matt McGee, editor of FS, for seeing something worthwhile in the story and sticking his neck out to promote it.
Beginning of another weekend. Day started off well and ended well. Wrote a bit in the early morning, called my father to offer well-wishes on his eighty-eighth birthday, then opened my email to find an acceptance slip.
The story that was picked up, “Cat and Mouse,” was included in my collection, Outskirts of Nowhere. It’s now found a home in a future issue of Crossborder Journal, a joint publication of Leapfrog Press and Guernica Editions, a Canadian press.
The acceptance was a nice little surprise. Hope the story reads that way, too. Would anyone mind if I dedicated it to my dad? Happy birthday, Pop. This one’s for you.
Got some nice news today. Grey Wolfe press wants to publish “Delivered” in their 2014 Grey Wolfe Storybook Anthology. Signed the agreement and filled out the author questionnaire before leaving work. Sent them off with a headshot.
Started raining a few minutes ago. Not bad, but the sky is overcast again and the air went instantly humid. Not sure what the long-term forecast is, and not sure I care anymore. Does it make a difference?
Kitties are wrestling again. Lick, lick, lick. Bite, bite, bite. Run away, hope to be chased, caterwaul when caught and howl when not. Life is perfect. More than perfect. Sometimes, it actually makes sense.
Finished a story today. Short piece, just under 2000 words. Have a specific market in mind for it, but will hold off sending it out until I get back from Wyoming. Give it (and me) time to rest. Another piece (just under 3000 words) is also close to being finished. Maybe by week’s end.
Sky was blue today, lit up with the Colorado sun that’s been vagrant most of the past few weeks. Felt nice. Don’t mean to complain about the rain—especially after the great fires of years past—but overcast skies are my Achilles heel. I can only take the grey so long.
Had a dream last night that I was helping build a replica of the Statue of Liberty. Two-thirds scale. Something went wrong in the construction of the arm that holds the torch aloft, and when we (We? who were those other people!) attempted to correct the problem the structure toppled, cracking into pieces.
Down with a cold. More rain, more delays with the kitchen. Wrote a couple of radio spots this afternoon, and read an interesting (and funny) piece in The Slate Review, “Authentocracy in America” by a guy named Ron Ford.
Still shaking my head.
People.
Quick show of hands. How many folks out there believe a submission requiring entry fee should entitle the writer the courtesy of a formal rejection?
Yeah, same here.
So what’s with the pervasive lack of professionalism? Where are everyone’s manners? I won’t name names, but geez, pick it up already. It’s embarrassing.
Beautiful morning. Sunny, warm, not a bit of humidity. Things finally seem to be falling into place. Finished (or nearly finished) revisions on two stories, both of which were clipped by at least 1000 words. Also got a head start on a third. Maybe the coming weeks will bring an uptick in productivity.
Reading a lot of short fiction at the moment, some of which is inspiring and some of which is baffling. Best to try and stay centered. Believe in what’s yours, in your own voice. Remind yourself each day it doesn’t matter what anyone else does.
R. Smith forwarded a short film today in which Sean Hemingway (Gregory’s son, Ernest’s grandson), curator for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, talks about paintings that influenced his grandfather’s work. Most of the material was familiar. Even so, it was a good reminder that if you’re looking for a new way to craft a story, sometimes the road less traveled is the one to take.
Slept in, edited an old story, painted, and went off to a movie. Some of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s work. Film was a bit slow (not enough cerebral weight to carry lengthy scenes), but Hoffman was completely compelling.
Two rejections in the past two days for “Requiem for a Bantamweight,” a story I based on a news account of a dead boxer, and the opponent he cheats of a moral victory before being shipped off to the bone orchard.
Quiet night in the neighborhood. A nice break from this morning’s noise. Skies are clear, too. Weather people are calling for sunshine and hot weather again in the coming days. We’ll see. Truck is shipshape and ready for a long drive into Wyoming. If the weather holds, all should be fine.
Long day, good night.
Countertops installed, new month, tired to the bone.
Tomorrow's almost here.
Broke out the long-sleeved tee today, and happy I did. More cool, rainy weather.
The foothills are lush, and the great smooth scar north of the Garden of the Gods is as green as a billiard table.
Got revisions in play on three different stories this morning, and a chance to dig into a new story by Gina Frangello, former editor of Other Voices, in the current issue of Ploughshares.
Truck is in the shop, awaiting repairs. Fingers crossed the mechanic’s bill won’t be too bad. Fingers doubly crossed the undercarriage tire mount can be repaired before I leave for the wilds of Wyoming.
Rainiest summer in a long time. Misting and spitting all day. A breeze came up during the night and blew the humidity away. The 50 degrees it left behind has the air feeling like fall, and making me wonder where I left my fleece.
Was packed up and ready to drive to Wyoming today, but the weather—among other small concerns—put a damper on the escape. Truck needs some looking after, including a repair to the undercarriage so the spare tire can start having a proper ride.
Trip to the Bighorns will have to wait until next week. But that’s okay. Anytime’s the right time. Meanwhile, got a nice letter from the editors at Leapfrog Press, inquiring after unpublished stories from The Outskirts of Nowhere for possible placement in their lit journal, Crossborders. Told them all were taken, save two, either of which I’d be delighted to see them put into print.
Sent along a third as well, “Give Me Your Tomorrows,” which is not part of the collection. GMYT has gotten some nice comments from editors, but the epistolary nature of the narration seems to bug people, so I guess we’ll see what happens.
Took care of little things today.
Slow day. Socked in, again. Rain, humidity, and a deep gray sky have settled over everything. The Front Range is white with clouds and mist, and the Peak has disappeared all together. It’s a good day for a book. Too warm for a fire.
Re-read Tobias Wolff’s “Desert Breakdown, 1968” this morning before leaving for work. The story about a young husband, home from Vietnam, wondering whether he should ditch his pregnant wife and son. Young writers talk about authenticity. Wolff’s voice is as authentic as it gets.
A terrific piece in the February 2014 New Yorker somehow escaped me. It was by Roger Angell, a writer I greatly admire. “This Old Man (Life in the nineties)” is the essay’s title. It’s an exploration of the glories and defeats of old age, but it’s also a textbook example of how to create a work that’s both “in the moment” yet clearly capable of a long, honorable shelf life.
On a not-so-dissimilar topic, had a long overdue conversation this evening with my soon-to-be eighty-eight-year-old father. His voice sounded good, strong and confident. The things we talked about were mundane—football, family, times we’ve spent together in the mountains—but I suspect they’ll stay with me for a long, long time. With luck, maybe forever.
Hard to believe it’s almost August. The kitchen job has knocked time all out of kilter, imposing itself on every other part of the summer’s comings and goings. But things are moving forward. Or so I’m told.
Close to finishing the working draft of my newest story, and excited about its prospects. It’s coming in just under 5,000 words, but feels like fewer. Hope that’s a good sign. Another couple of pages should see it to its proper end. Might reach that point tomorrow.
Turns out the Dalhousie Review’s acceptance of “Blues Legend,” marks the occasion of my 50th story finding its way into publication. Two of the pieces in this mix—“Photograph,” and “Riffs on My Dad”—were reprinted, so depending on how you look at it, the count could still rest at 48.
Either way, I’m good. Look for another celebration in the future.
Unofficial end to week 10 of the kitchen renovation. No workmen until late afternoon. Doing what? Who knows?
Productive morning. First writing, then painting. Took off late afternoon to get a haircut.
Another storm brewing. A quilt of dark heavy clouds threatening to cut loose. Hope they bring a good one. My freshly mowed lawn could use it.
Late afternoon thundershower. Feels good. Smells even better. Slow day at the office, but living high on the fumes of yesterday’s acceptance.
Closing in on several new drafts. Just need time.
Much painting of trim-work today. Little writing. Got in some early morning time at the keyboard, then headed to the garage looking for unopened cans of paint.
Cabinet install is supposed to be complete tomorrow. After that, who knows? I pray for electricity, but hey, I pray to win the lotto, too. Batting .000 on both counts.
Got an acceptance slip from the editors of the Dalhousie Review today for my short story “Blues Legend.” The DR was founded in 1921, and its past contributors include luminaries like Margaret Atwood and Nadine Gordimer.
Thrilled? July's beginning to look tolerable again.
Tried really hard to turn this day into something…and lost.
