IT'S ALL ABOUT ENDINGS

Guess who had a tooth removed? And who's a bit giddy with Hydrocodone? You're right. Me. The hole isn't permanent. Going for broke with an implant. But since this is a writer's blog, let me get to the point. Just finished watching What They Had. Ah, the trouble with endings. Elizabeth Chomko wrote and directed this little gem, but she had problems with it. The ending. I think she tried to end the film maybe four times.I recognized at least three potential endings. 

We writers? Don't we always struggle to get an ending right? I see it all the time in films and books. Sometimes, I get so philosophically above the craft that I realize no ending's right. When Mertie and I bought our last home in Spokane, Washington, I recall saying, "This is it. This is where I'll end my life." Then Mertie, my darling wife, decided she wanted to make a little more money. She deserved more money, she said, so we came to Vancouver, Washington for a better paying job. Now, I think this might be where I die, yet, Spokane is always on our minds. If only it weren't for the snow.

So you see? Life keeps going on after the artistic ending of any book, story, film or play. When I'm in that mood, endings trouble any creative endeavor for me. Fact is that for each of us there is only one ending, and who doesn't know what that is?

OLIVETTI TYPEWRITERS AND DRINKING ADVENTURES

Just had to make this entry. I was going through some old files in a filing cabinet I hadn't looked at in decades. I found all these manuscripts that I typed on my old, wonderful Olivetti portable. I gave the typewriter to one of my hippy roomies when I left Dayton, Ohio to head to California. I was skipping out on the rent and gave him the typewriter as partial payment. Those were my drinking days. Such a transaction fits the type, eh?

I never made it to California. I thought my brother had a job for me with his pavement striping company out there. Turns out, he didn't own that company. He was selling drugs instead. His mother, my stepmother, informed me just as I was getting ready to drive away. So, instead, I drove South with a plan to find work on shrimp boats. Ended up in Mobile, Alabama. I almost achieved that goal, but that is another tale altogether that includes my six month marriage to a Southern gal which is another story. So many tales. 

Anyway, the Olivetti was a fine machine and typed very presentable manuscripts. I can date the manuscript to pre-1973. I would get sober in 1976, so I was well gone toward the end of my downward spiral. PS: I don't believe I ever sent this ms anywhere. Thinking I might dust it off and give it a whirl.

KESTREL BUYS (i.e. ACCEPTS) JOE B. TANNER'S PICKUP

 

YES. A CELEBRATION. My short story "Joe B. Tanner's Pickup" is selected by literary magazine Kestrel at Fairmont State University in West Virginia for publication. 

Interesting side note. (Well) interesting to me at least. Last night, I stayed up till 1:30 am rewriting that Tanner story and submitted it to Cutbank in Missoula, MT. Shortened the tale by 400 words. I think slightly improved it. As I say, nothing I create is finished until it's published. 

Kestrel had my story for 5 months. They said don't query until 3 months have passed. I queried them. So in same 24 hours, I queried Kestrel, rewrote and submitted story to Cutbank, and this morning voila! I told Kestrel about the rewrite and offered to send it to them. Awaiting there response.

By the way, both literary magazines accept simultaneous submissions. 

REWRITING GHOUL WORLD

Twenty-five days since my last entry here. This is not as it should be, but I am busy at writing. I have sent out more than 60 submissions in the last 20 days. I labored extremely carefully over a 50 page submission of my scifi novel Ghoul World to a publisher of novels. Took more than 5 hours to get it sounding as professional as I'm able. Hopes were sky high as I sent it off. You know how it is? You think this sounds just right to get their attention. It'll titillate them, and they'll want to read the rest of it. To get the novel ready for their request to see the whole thing, I'm rewriting for the 8th, 10th, 11th time??? Nothing is finished until someone publishes it. Is that the way with you?

I felt the same positive way about three 8 line lushi I sent off to a magazine that reads for half a month and publishes acceptances the second half of the next month. I worked diligently on convincing them my three lushi fit their requirements to a T. The say if they don't get back within three weeks forget it. November 1 will be three weeks, and I've heard nothing. Damn, the markets are filled with good writing, mine among it.

I'VE BEEN GONE SO LONG

Well, hello, Halloween! Hello, too, alliteration. Halloween, like Christmas in Macy's already, is coming close. Again, it's been awhile, and people who look in are dwindling drastically. I was warned. Weekly, at least, posts are a positive position when it comes to blogging. I deserve every ding I get if I don't post more. 

Lately, the writing life is wonderfully wild. Day after day I do it, and I do it at home, weaning myself from the coffee shop clutch. I'm picking up some pale poetry and pampering it with reams of rewriting. Still, too, writing and rewriting those stories that I think are good. PLUS, a big plus, I wrote a new story called Free Love. It's probably not finished. Nothing I write is finished until it's published. I can't cock an eye at anything unpublished without making changes. That means I have a lot of unfinished work on my hands, novels, short stories, essays and poetry. A screenplay or two and a couple of plays. I'm all alliterated out.

FRANK SINATRA AND ME ALONE IN MY CIVIC

It's been so long since my last entry that I forgot how to access blogger. And, when I tried to put Sinatra's photo in here, the process is different than before. What a mess. 

Nothing new to report. My poetry did appear in Adelaide. Still waiting for Zero Dark Thirty poem to appear. Wonder if it is delayed by the plague? 

I'm about 2/3 of the way through rewrite of novel The Porn Writer now. I keep sending out stories and poetry. 

Why do I mention, Sinatra? Lately, I've begun to carry several CDs in the Civic of music from my childhood, teens and twenties. Trying to reawaken an old self for, hopefully, creative purposes. Pete Seeger, Simon and Garfunkel, hits from 1941 when my parent's divorced and I turned 4. Sinatra of course. And Barbra Streisand too, but, you know what? She sounds trite and much too cutsey. Sinatra and the others hold up. I know Dylan ought to be in the mix too, but I don't have one of his CDs. 

As I announced in another venue, my prostate cancer remains in my prostate even thought my PSA made a leap. Just had bone and torso scans that came up clean. Feel energized to keep working after some falloff of energy. 

ROSEMARY CLOONEY AND MY BEATNIK YOUTH

"Hey, there, you with the stars in your eyes...." Ah, Rosemary Clooney and my youth! My age is showing. All I can say is that I'm happily writing again. Busy on rewrite of a novel I now call The Reprogramming of Frank Singletary.

My poems have appeared in Adelaide. I think I already reported that. Still waiting for poem in Zero Dark Thirty. Covid-19 may be delaying getting that literary magazine out. They haven't notified me.

I am quite happy to be writing again. Fulfills me to no end. The other night, I was reading a short story by Hemingway, "Banal Story". It inspired me to start one just like it, only set in our times. However, I was tired, it was late, and I couldn't get very far along. By next morning, the feeling that inspired the story was gone. So. There it sits in a computer file, a couple of inspired paragraphs that may never see the darkness inside a closed literary magazine.

BOOMING ALONG, FISHING FOR REAL

Me and some cousins

Big breakthrough. I'm writing at home on my desktop computer. Rewriting a novel called The Porn Writer or Reprogramming Frank Singletary or who knows what? Happy to unblock. I hadn't thought of it as writer's block. I considered it an inconvenience created by the plague. I'm certainly much happier to be writing or rewriting at something. 

My newest short stories are being rejected by literary magazines, but two more rejections were very positive. One wrote, "We were very impressed with your work, but unfortunately will not be able to include it in [...] this year. We hope you'll consider submitting to us again in the future." I must must wait till September to try them again.The other wrote, "We'll be happy to consider any new work you care to submit in the future."

Nice to feel so close. Like they're swimming down there, tempted by my bait. I've put together a collection of stories too, but I need to bring those tales into line with latest revisions. Maybe the impact of all of them in a contest might get a publisher's interest. Who knows? Maybe try The Iowa Review contest. 

The photo? Yep, that's me, the tough guy, first born of cousins, on the top right. Top left, my cousin Edward. Both of us Navy vets, but he died of complications of alcoholism while I survived. He was a powerful personality. Booze life? It's so much fun until it isn't. I'm sad thinking of him.

THE SILENT BOOMER/ MORE POET THAN FICTION WRITER?

Coming home from drive on Rte 14

What can I say? Haven't made an entry here for ages. One reason is that I can't find this blog on my desktop computer, and Mertie is using my laptop for working at home. I am having more problems with technology than I can describe here. Smartphone is awful to deal with, and no one these days gives a damn about customer service. I carry around an image in my brain of smug young people sitting around laughing at my efforts to communicate.

A reason for not writing? No coffee shops to write in and no laptop, as I said. What I've been doing is driving around the beautiful Pacific Northwest. Driving around has always been a stress reliever for me. 

Some good news. Adelaide will be publishing four poems later this month. Still waiting for next issue of Zero Dark Thirty to come out with another poem recently accepted.  

Now out to drive around in the rain. I don't mind rainy driving. It has it's pleasures too. 

BEATNIKING IT ON THE ROAD

I'm still alive. You'd think I'd stay home and write my head off, but staying home feels like prison. No more coffee shops to write in. Have been getting out on the road and driving, listening to jazz, making videos. But, hit or miss, I have polished off two more short stories that I began months ago but set aside when they weren't going anywhere. So I'm happy enough, waiting for my poem to appear in Zero Dark Thirty.

Have weird feeling from time to time before I set out each day to drive or get a soy chai that no one is outside anymore, but, there they are at the Starbucks for "grab and go" service only. The Vancouver Mall is closed currently for at least two weeks. Some small businesses are really getting hurt. The potential for this Covid-19 is awful, but if too many people feel as I do—not very scared at all—then they'll be doing risky business for seniors like myself. What is only a cold for a young dancer in a bar is death for a guy at the supermarket. 

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PHILIP ROTH AND SILENT BEATNIK BOOMER ME

Nothing new to report except that some more short stories are appearing in my head out of the magical realm of the imagination. Still waiting for my copy of Zero Dark Thirty magazine with my lyric poem in it. It will be April, as I said, before I hear from Plainsongs about "one or more" of my poems there that have gone to the final readers. I got on the ball during the past weekend and sent out a short story and several groups of poems to various markets. 

Mertie and I are watching Sharp Objects an 8 episode limited series. I like those better than endless series that don't end till people get tired of the sameness of them. 

I'm trying to read Philip Roth's The Plot Against America.

Watched an interesting film Thoroughbreds last night, about two mentally ill young women. I liked it, but then, my taste is not the most popular taste. 

Can't believe it's been three weeks since last entry. 

WHEN HEMINGWAY WAS A BEATNIK

More semi-success with poetry. The respected journal Plainsongs has forwarded "one or more" of my  poems from my cancer ms to final judges. I won't know final results until April.

Not much else to report except that I'm currently reading Hemingway's A Moveable Feast with great interest. I find my approach to short stories somewhat match his approach as it existed when he was a youth in Paris. 

Very shortly I will have reworked all my most recent short tales and built a ms for entering into contests. Maybe about 250 pages of fiction there. Still, no one has bitten on one of them to place in a journal. One story is still at the magazine that asked me specifically to send another piece of fiction.

BEATNIK FINDS MOM IN JUDY

Got another poem accepted for publication in near future in O-Dark-Thirty. I don't know exactly when the issue will come out. Payment is a copy of the journal. I sent three poems and they took one of them—Rice Harvest. The poem they took is extremely subtle and musical too. I had given up on getting it published until I saw their call for poetry from veterans. The poem is about Vietnam, and the death of young men in rice fields. Short stories still going out and coming back.

Still laboring—very slowly—on the short story ms, rewriting each tale one last time. Far too many days, dizziness plagues my sensibility. Today—head clear—I'll get some work done as soon as I publish this post.

Recent viewing: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood and Judy. Both worth a look if you've a mind to. Judy reminds me of my mother's dramatic ways.

PUZZLING A WAY PAST HENRY JAMES

Recall this great film?

This will be brief. I'm in the midst of fine tuning all the recent short stories and putting them into an ms. As I reread them, I'm further convinced of their worth. I do worry that certain editors may not catch onto one of my stylistic mannerisms. I'm just realizing it myself. Life, you know, is not like a Jamesian short story or a classical idea of art that requires all elements in a creative piece contribute to a final sense of meaning. Many writers strive for such an effect. I loved James' tales, but after a time of reading them and his style, I said, "Enough. I get it."

My stories include disparate elements. My characters might one moment be feeling sad about something and laughing about something else in another moment. Like in real life. Thus I am not able to achieve that classical ideal of art as I first encountered it as I pursued my degrees in English and Creative Writing. I suppose such disparity might be allowed in a long piece while not being appreciated in very short fiction which most of my pieces are. But it feels calming to be back at work after an uncomfortable time of doubt.