I've been weeks working up what's become a 5 page back-story for the new novel. A complex history has developed that I find quite intriguing. Looking through photos on the web as stand-in inspirations for my main characters, I've found a lover for my detective and a face for his robotic partner. Faces for the Huynhymns might be harder to find, but I think I've got the Neanderthals covered pretty well. The ghouls I'll leave to your imagination.
If you think you're hearing things, well...?
More good news: a recent effort at humor was accepted in an online issue of 50plusnorthwest.com.
Last Saturday, was privileged to be offered (by Chris Luna) the opportunity to read a poem at the Peace and Justice Fair at Esther Short Park in downtown Vancouver. Received an unexpected honorarium of 25 dollars. Add that to the 22 dollars I earned in 1978 from the publication of two of my poems in the Anglo-Welsh Review, and I'm fat as far a being a poet on the outskirts of the known world of poetics is concerned. Of course, I've not put a value on all the copies I've received of the magazines I've appeared in. The 6 years Mertie and I published the microzine, George and Mertie's Place, we did have subscribers, but we never broke even. Didn't plan on profits in the first place.
Torque Coffee, tea on a mon(sun)day, bay door thrown up to let Kerouac sunbeams fly and flies in. Framed in bay door of never-ending same dimension—a Hilton's tan plainness on a square of canvass, hint of blue sky and white clouds thin as harem pantaloons in the left corner of a Rene Magritte kind-of painting. Happiness of vision!
YESTERDAY, rewriting at Black Rock Coffee, I was tired in the afternoon (aged man two o'clock nap). Nothing came of the pitiful attempt except drowsiness and drooping spirit...but...
LAST EVE, AN EMAIL:
George:
Can we use the article you sent recently on 50plusnorthwest.com? We will include a link to your website.
Greg Johnson
50plusnorthwest
Of course you can, I chirped. Of course, gladly, happily, publish my pathetic, funny essay.... Of course, also, no money. What's new in the current writers' domains? For the barest of moments, I think of Vonnegut. In 1950s, two short stories earned him 1,500 dollars, enough to keep his family afloat for six months. A writer dare not hang at the end of that clothesline. He'll fade in sunlight. Anyhow, damn it, I'm appreciative, and Editor Greg Johnson's
acceptance keeps me hyped to my goal, my item on a bucket list—to wit—to get someone other than myself to publish one of my four novels before I die.
AND TODAY...Happy day, my Chapter Twenty rewrite of Angie's Choice flew by, done before noon. Two chapters remain (and that touch-up in Chapter One to make it more appealing), then I won't look at it again. I'll send it around and around, ceaselessly, until it begs to be let die...or I die...whichever comes next.
If you think you're hearing things, well...? 