What can I say? So close, yet so far. A story published last month, two poems forthcoming soon and this near miss, rejected with high praise. I knew as I wrote these recent tales they are fair to good. This one caught the eye of the very respected Fiddlehead magazine. All this happening as the battle with my prostate cancer moves from my urologist to an oncologist, a sign the disease is worsening. The visit with the oncologist, though, left me with hope for several more good and useful writing years.
I want to visit Wales this year or next, the home of my ancestors and Dylan Thomas whose work I once upon a time could not get enough of. Those were also my drinking years.
What a conundrum. I'm hesitant to submit something else to Fiddlehead that might spoil their good opinion of my skills. Ain't that a dandy form of writer's block?
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