A Brief accounting of myself...

Back in town.

Lights are on.

Came home to good things, not the least of which was a finished (close enough, anyway) kitchen, and another acceptance slip. “Gifted,” a short-short, was picked up by the Homestead Review, a pub out of Hartnell College in Salinas, California.

Expecting company later this afternoon. A long-overdue, much beloved visitor.

Should be a good weekend.

WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION...

August 12, 2014

Woke early. 3:45 maybe, in a hotel on Hat Six Road. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Wrote a bit in the morning, then packed up. Went to the Safeway, stocked up on water, and supplies. Left Casper around noon.

Road construction on the west end of town, over highway 20. Flag men, etc. Drove into Arminto around 1:30, where I lost all telephone reception. BNSF railcars dead on tracks. New gas and oil rigs have sprung up. The old wool warehouse is losing ground to new mechanical doings. Some year it’ll disappear the way the alkali terminal did.

Road up the mountain was touchy in places, but better over some stretches than its been in many a year. Not sure what to think about that. Progress? Reached the cabin just before 4:00 and got things tidied up, ready for dinner.

Quiet tonight. No one for miles around. Just crickets, birds, and the occasional squirrel. The evening sky was blue. Different shades, from power to a deep gray blue. No orange or red at all. Writing by the light of two kerosene lamps.

August 13, 2014

Hash for breakfast, and a can of peaches. Enjoying a cup of instant, doctored with evaporated milk. It’s good to have things that remind you of home, but that aren’t home itself. Instant coffee. Kerosene lamps. A small bed with blankets you hardly remember, except that you slept under them one week every summer for twenty years.

First full day on the mountain. Quiet, but even so the residue of city sounds—car engines, overheard conversations, strange little ticks and ringings—keep rattling around in the head. Takes a while for the mind to shut down. Longer than it used to.

Saw a dead steer up at the gate near the Rochelle place on the way in yesterday. Just a black husk now streaked with bird shit, innards scavenged over the winter. A crow was sitting on its back when I drove up. Spooked when I got out to take a photo.

Saw the hide and backbone of another steer down in the Red Valley. Some enterprising soul had hung it on a fence. I remember the summer the steer first appeared. It was ten years ago. A red and white Hereford. Every summer since it’s lost a bit of itself to coyotes and turkey buzzards, and now it’s been reduced down to a macabre sort of ornament.

Forgot to retrieve my stories from Dropbox before coming up the mountain, so have nothing to revise for two days. The words are all locked up, somewhere in space. Couldn’t get at them if I wanted. Guess I’ll have to start in on the new one I’ve been thinking about. See if I can make some headway in that direction.

(Later…)

Wrote the draft of a new story, then hiked down to the old Thompson cabin, fishing the narrow little creek that trickles through the hills. Caught and released four brook and two cutt. Not bad for a lazy day’s work. Waiting to hit the Middle Fork of the Powder tomorrow before taking any for dinner.

Saw a doe and fawn browsing in the rocks up near Dylan’s Mountain. Other than that, a sleepy late afternoon. Read Peter Rock’s “Go-Between” and Robert Hellenga’s “A Christmas Letter” in Ploughshares when I got back to the cabin. Not to take anything away from Rock, but the Hellenga story really got to me.

(Later still…)

Half an hour from sunset. Crickets have started sawing. Hoping for a clear night so I can stay up and stargaze awhile.

Missing old friends who used to come up here with me. Place is full of ghosts.

August 14, 2014

Stayed up late last night, but no break in the overcast skies. Clouds boiled up black and blue, filling the entire bowl of the heavens. Even the moon went truant. Got up and went outside around three. It was snowing. Nothing big, just flurries.

Spitting rain, now, and looking gloomy. Waiting to see how bad it gets before heading out to the middle fork. Don’t want to get mired along the way. It’s a bad road with some nasty switchbacks.

Guess I’ll boil another cup and settle into writing for a while.

(After waiting awhile…)

Rain’s coming down good and hard now, and the sky’s disappeared into the mist. No middle fork today. We’re heading for a great big toad-strangler.

A handful of dust bunny...

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. 

Eyes on the Prize...

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.

 

A Joint Celebration...

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.

 

Scattered thoughts...

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.  

Ups and downs...

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.

 

 

A day unsalvaged...

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.

Vintage whine...

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.

 

Pictures vs. A Thousand Words...

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.   

Another Saturday night...

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.

Saturation point...

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.

Scuttled--but...

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. 

Not bad, for a Monday...

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.

Old friends, bookends...

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.

 

Milestones...

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.  

Rainy day, dream away...

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.