A DIRTY MIND

It's been months since I last checked in. My genetic clock still ticks down, and I continue to send out work for consideration after doing a tuck here and there. I've been concentrating more on fiction and less on poetry even though poetry continues to be my strongest suit, according to the editors at the helm of literary magazines. I fear my age is reflected in the short stories, and I think young editors fail to realize there might be a market among seniors for stories based in the not to distant past.  

A surprise arrived in the mail, a royalty check, pictured above, from my publisher, AuthorHouse. Someone bought a poetry book or two from them. Thank you, my anonymous supporter(s). I hope one of the books, Gray House By Cold Mountain, did not shock and/or the other one based on my MFA thesis, Tenderfoot, demonstrated what I am capable of in a more serious mood. I believe in the first book as it demonstrates more authenticity than the second. Yes, I have a dirty mind as do the minds of most serious writers. 

PETE SEEGER TICKY-TACK? NO MORE.

Just finished my walk. 85 degrees outside. Tomorrow, back into the 90s. Spent between 4 and 4 1/2 hours, as promised to myself, sending off 4 queries to agents this morning. Three went out for Programming Frank Singletary and one went out for Ghoul World. Even as I rewrite Ghoul World for the third time, I intend to send out the second version. It's good enough to go as is, I think, but another rewrite won't hurt. If someone likes the current version, that's all to the good. As a younger writer, I don't think I'd do it this way, but my age rushes me a bit. 
Part of my walk, as usual, was through an expensive neighborhood to the north. I look at those homes and would like to see us in one of the smaller, one story homes there [$500,000]. Of course, she might reject such a move, being the woman she is. When I was young, and city neighborhoods were Pete Seeger ticky-tack in my head, I could not entertain such an ambition. I was full of hate for the middle class, but my hate turned out to be my hate for my bourgeois self that I feared made me very ordinary and unable to achieve success in the creative world. Now, here I am, 77, and still striving. Speaking of success, my wife and I took along audio books to listen to during our drive to Yellowstone. We listened to a mystery by a woman author who shall go nameless. Not a name I recognized, but my wife has read other of her books. The writer was making stylistic "errors" that I've been upset at myself for making, yet, there her work was, on an audio tape. The story line was intriguing. I feel that Ghoul World has a solid story line. We'll see.

THE BEATNIK BEAT UP, CRIES CROCODILE TEARS

Last Thursday (May 14, 2015), just before I went to bed, I discovered two rejections of my novel, Ghoul World, among my emails. Though I went to bed and slept okay, next morning when I awoke I had to struggle mightily to keep myself writing. I seriously imagined this book would be scarfed up fast. After some thought, I found a piece of silver lining stuck to one corner of the emails. One of the agents who rejected was one whose agency link said she didn't respond to queries and if an author didn't receive a rejection in 4 or 5 weeks, he/she should take his query as rejected. The fact she took the time to send me a friendly form rejection told me that my story idea had caught her attention enough that she read the 5 page sample. That is a good and bad thing. The idea is dynamite as I knew it was, but my writing isn't carrying the weight to clinch the deal. As I plan one more rewrite, I'm okay. As soon as I finish the rewrite on The Porn Writer, I'll get back into Ghoul World. 

REWRITE OF PORN NOVEL COMPULSIVELY UNDERWAY

PORN

I could only stand one day without something to write at. I'm now rewriting an old novel about a guy who turns to writing porn as a way to get published since he's a flop in so many other ways. His writing and the new romance in his life with a mysterious woman lead him into a situation he doesn't expect. Yes, I've put real porn in it, but even the porn [you can easily see, if you've ever read porn] is not the kind of porn that porn dogs want. He's a flop even when writing porn. Only he doesn't know it. My wife doesn't like this novel, The Porn Writer, because of the porn in it. She fears, I fear, that it might get published. Then, her family would know what an outrageous nut she's happily married to. I'm kind of interested, also, in what a traditional publisher would do with The Porn Writer.

HAVE BEATNIKED MY WAY TO COMPLETION & NO PROSTATE CANCER!

Found image here....

Today is all happiness and joy. Two great things happened today. Just now, I finished the last rewrite of the novel, Ghoul World. Last night, anticipating the completion, I had already dispatched inquiries with ten page samples to three agents. One of them came back immediately. A form letter that the agent is too busy to look at inquiries at this time.

Today, an hour before I completed the rewrite, I departed the doctor's office with the knowledge that my enlarged prostate is probably not cancerous at this time. The PSA test revealed a smaller number than last time. Though still above normal range, my PSA declined from 6.1 back down to 5.5. It appears my numbers, when graphed, create a sawtooth, up and down, with a small increasing average. Plus my doctor put a blessed digit up my behind and proclaimed he could find no nodules or bumps on my prostate. Somehow, that digi-check and proclamation is more reassuring than bare numbers. 

THE SILENT "BEAT" BOOMER AND THE CARROT

Thursday, I sent off a short story contest entry and $15 of my Social Security check to Glimmer Train Press. The contest is for "new" writers, i.e. those writers whose fiction has not appeared in a press run of more than 5000 books. That's just about most of the writers in America. I'm a really old, "new" writer under those terms. Such contests are what's left for writers of "serious literary" fiction nowadays. 

My goal remains steadily before my eyes...to get someone other than myself to publish a book of mine. My own situation isn't so bad. I know personally two novelists whose first books were published by major publishers but who have never—yet—got a second book accepted. Talk about a big freekin' CARROT! By now, the vegetable no longer dangles before their noses. It's stuffed up their _ _ _ _ _! I'm telling you, folks, this writing game ain't for the weak.

There was a time when I earned money for a couple of poems I wrote as witnessed by the two photos. I received money from The Anglo-Welsh Review once upon at time...about $22 in American money. I cashed the cheque and kept one dollar to frame. I'm still proud of that acceptance. The English pittance came my way not too long before I found an agent for that novel I spoke of. I thought I was there, ready for fame and fortune! The bleeding novel was called, at the time, Children Of God. Now it's called Angie's Choice. 

Today, I'm going to forget all my trials and tribulations and, as soon as I pay some bills, I'm going to drive off under the sun to the Washington Coast. Wife is very busy today, and my plan is to stay out of her hair for awhile.