Hello. It's been more than a year since last I made an entry here. The supposedly aggressive prostate cancer is still under control it seems. I'm still alive, entering my 7th year with it. Working at rewriting the short stories I wrote several years back. They entered my room all in a rush and needed haircuts. They are experiencing homelessness, and that means they are homeless however you slice it. My poems are better at finding homes than my stories, and that's a shame, but young editors aren't looking for older writers with the sensibilities of white European writers. They crave work by those who have been shut out for centuries. Not fair, but since when has any literary period been fair to those whose style isn't sought for? I fear I'm truly out of date, but that makes it harder on my old homeless stories. Old stories don't do well on the streets.
Hey, I just stood up to stretch my legs and found a biography of Philip Roth by Blake Bailey. One of my all time favorite authors. If you haven't read American Pastoral, you've missed one of the best books about the 60s ever written. I hope his bio's not too definitive. I like a smooth read.
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