SMILING LIKE A ROBOT BEATNIK

Seven days since I wrote that my writing days might be over. In those seven days, I've rewritten one story and added three new stories that I believe may be the sort of stories that get published. How it came about?

I was rewriting a tale now called "All About Jane" for the who-knows-how-many times since I first scribbled it long hand on college lined paper when I was struggling in graduate school at Southern Illinois University. That would be 53-some years ago. 

The plot was influenced very much by the symbolic young man I was at the time. It concerned a high school boy who could not bring himself to have sex with a willing wheelchair bound, very intelligent high school girl. She represented the world he was having trouble accepting because it was such an ugly world, but they eventually had sex and all was well with the world afterward. 

Every time I rewrote it, I cleaned up the language [not sexual language], a too florid style. Eventually I changed it so they don't have sex, and the boy much later in life looks back at what he learned. Still not satisfied, this last time I changed the final line of the tale and brought the story into the way I look at us robots these days, and, voila, there it was—finished? Then I wrote three more stories from a robot's pov. 

KENNETH HOPKINS...A GOOD WAY TO LEARN TO WRITE

Rewriting on Angie's Choice continues, and my wife has begun to read the yellowing, typewritten pages of a novel I wrote in 1965 while I was a candidate for a Masters in English at Southern Illinois University. She tells me without a trace of irony that she likes The Man In the Mirror.

Kenneth Hopkins and anonymous lady

British writer, Kenneth Hopkins, created the excellent opportunity to write that novel. He'd been a humor writer for Punch after WWII until a round of economizing cost him his position. He decided he had enough money to last two years and, with his wife's agreement, he took that time to write and sell a mystery. 

Hopkins was the first visiting writer I ever encountered at a university. SIU brought Hopkins over to teach one section in creative writing. First day of class, Hopkins announced there'd be only two grades in his course—A or F. If you completed a long project—poetry ms, novel or play—you earned an A. If you didn't complete a long project, you got the F. He never held another class but said he'd be available in his office if we gave him a call first. I sat my ass down and typed an 11 chapter novel in 11 weeks to earn my A. (The boundless energy of youth, eh?) Mr. Hopkins liked the novel so well he took it too England to show his editors. They said, "Have Mr. Thomas write a couple more novels, and he'll be able to rewrite and sell this." The story about what came between me and those "couple more novels" would fill a biographical chapter. Or two.

ONCE A LITTLE SILENT, NOW AN OLDER ONE

 There was a beginning to The Silent Boomer who would like to write one book that sells before he dies. When he was born, he was pronounced to be the largest baby born to the smallest woman in Miami Valley Hospital history. When he was one year old, he won a contest to decide the most beautiful baby. By the time he was 30, his life was disintegrating around his ears, his hopes and 

dreams dissolving before his blood shot eyes. During that time, he was declared to the biggest baby by his fellow graduate students at Southern Illinois University.

Now, many decades later, he stands before a couple of shelves of his collected writing, magazines and anthologies his work has appeared in, and books, chapbooks and microzines that his friends and acquaintances have appeared in. Happy enough, married at last to a woman he is actually present for nearly every day of his life, he peers out from the photo with a hopeful smile on his kisser.