FINDING HAPPINESS WITH PHILIP ROTH

 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 I fear I'm truly out of date, but that makes it harder on my old homeless stories.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.

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. 

A PUBLICATION PLAN

Time sure disappears. Last entry in this writer's blog was June 22. I'm more than 4/5 done on 6th? 10th? rewrite of my novel The Porn Writer. I'm reworking poetry constantly as they straggle home bedraggled and d(r)ejected from the fields of literature.

The August issue of Better 

Than Starbucks is here, 

online or ready to be bought 

and printed at Lulu. My poem Afterthought sits inside, a lüshi in the 8 line form of Chinese poet Hanshan.

Read the other day, the "publication plan" of a fellow writer. He said his goal was to get 100 rejections next year. Do you know how hard it is to get 100 rejections? I'm lucky to get 2 or 3 a month.

"Why should we subsidize intellectual curiosity?" from a Ronald Reagan campaign speech, 1980. And we wonder why the Republican Party has deteriorated so badly.

 

REWRITING GHOUL WORLD

Twenty-five days since my last entry here. This is not as it should be, but I am busy at writing. I have sent out more than 60 submissions in the last 20 days. I labored extremely carefully over a 50 page submission of my scifi novel Ghoul World to a publisher of novels. Took more than 5 hours to get it sounding as professional as I'm able. Hopes were sky high as I sent it off. You know how it is? You think this sounds just right to get their attention. It'll titillate them, and they'll want to read the rest of it. To get the novel ready for their request to see the whole thing, I'm rewriting for the 8th, 10th, 11th time??? Nothing is finished until someone publishes it. Is that the way with you?

I felt the same positive way about three 8 line lushi I sent off to a magazine that reads for half a month and publishes acceptances the second half of the next month. I worked diligently on convincing them my three lushi fit their requirements to a T. The say if they don't get back within three weeks forget it. November 1 will be three weeks, and I've heard nothing. Damn, the markets are filled with good writing, mine among it.

I'VE BEEN GONE SO LONG

Well, hello, Halloween! Hello, too, alliteration. Halloween, like Christmas in Macy's already, is coming close. Again, it's been awhile, and people who look in are dwindling drastically. I was warned. Weekly, at least, posts are a positive position when it comes to blogging. I deserve every ding I get if I don't post more. 

Lately, the writing life is wonderfully wild. Day after day I do it, and I do it at home, weaning myself from the coffee shop clutch. I'm picking up some pale poetry and pampering it with reams of rewriting. Still, too, writing and rewriting those stories that I think are good. PLUS, a big plus, I wrote a new story called Free Love. It's probably not finished. Nothing I write is finished until it's published. I can't cock an eye at anything unpublished without making changes. That means I have a lot of unfinished work on my hands, novels, short stories, essays and poetry. A screenplay or two and a couple of plays. I'm all alliterated out.

ROSEMARY CLOONEY AND MY BEATNIK YOUTH

"Hey, there, you with the stars in your eyes...." Ah, Rosemary Clooney and my youth! My age is showing. All I can say is that I'm happily writing again. Busy on rewrite of a novel I now call The Reprogramming of Frank Singletary.

My poems have appeared in Adelaide. I think I already reported that. Still waiting for poem in Zero Dark Thirty. Covid-19 may be delaying getting that literary magazine out. They haven't notified me.

I am quite happy to be writing again. Fulfills me to no end. The other night, I was reading a short story by Hemingway, "Banal Story". It inspired me to start one just like it, only set in our times. However, I was tired, it was late, and I couldn't get very far along. By next morning, the feeling that inspired the story was gone. So. There it sits in a computer file, a couple of inspired paragraphs that may never see the darkness inside a closed literary magazine.

WHEN HEMINGWAY WAS A BEATNIK

More semi-success with poetry. The respected journal Plainsongs has forwarded "one or more" of my  poems from my cancer ms to final judges. I won't know final results until April.

Not much else to report except that I'm currently reading Hemingway's A Moveable Feast with great interest. I find my approach to short stories somewhat match his approach as it existed when he was a youth in Paris. 

Very shortly I will have reworked all my most recent short tales and built a ms for entering into contests. Maybe about 250 pages of fiction there. Still, no one has bitten on one of them to place in a journal. One story is still at the magazine that asked me specifically to send another piece of fiction.

BEATNIK FINDS MOM IN JUDY

Got another poem accepted for publication in near future in O-Dark-Thirty. I don't know exactly when the issue will come out. Payment is a copy of the journal. I sent three poems and they took one of them—Rice Harvest. The poem they took is extremely subtle and musical too. I had given up on getting it published until I saw their call for poetry from veterans. The poem is about Vietnam, and the death of young men in rice fields. Short stories still going out and coming back.

Still laboring—very slowly—on the short story ms, rewriting each tale one last time. Far too many days, dizziness plagues my sensibility. Today—head clear—I'll get some work done as soon as I publish this post.

Recent viewing: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood and Judy. Both worth a look if you've a mind to. Judy reminds me of my mother's dramatic ways.

PUZZLING A WAY PAST HENRY JAMES

Recall this great film?

This will be brief. I'm in the midst of fine tuning all the recent short stories and putting them into an ms. As I reread them, I'm further convinced of their worth. I do worry that certain editors may not catch onto one of my stylistic mannerisms. I'm just realizing it myself. Life, you know, is not like a Jamesian short story or a classical idea of art that requires all elements in a creative piece contribute to a final sense of meaning. Many writers strive for such an effect. I loved James' tales, but after a time of reading them and his style, I said, "Enough. I get it."

My stories include disparate elements. My characters might one moment be feeling sad about something and laughing about something else in another moment. Like in real life. Thus I am not able to achieve that classical ideal of art as I first encountered it as I pursued my degrees in English and Creative Writing. I suppose such disparity might be allowed in a long piece while not being appreciated in very short fiction which most of my pieces are. But it feels calming to be back at work after an uncomfortable time of doubt.

GAMBLING, GAMBLING. LIFE'S ONE OF THEM.

Gambled a bit this morning at the Ilani Casino north of Vancouver. Lost but not much. Still ahead since winning 100 bucks in October was it? I only take $5 when I go.

Find photographer here

Prostate cancer news not so good. My plan is to make it to 88 or 90. However the PSA is increasing rapidly. Have telephone consult with my urologist next week. He's also more cautious in his promises. More later.

On the writing front, I'm hugely encouraged. Last three submissions of most recent short stories to the very best paying markets have garnered three rejections but all three included requests for more submissions. Same thing happened with four poems from my prostate cancer ms. Strong encouragement and invite to submit again. I know the work is good, but they also compete with the very best writers who go for publication in top markets. I might never crack those markets, but I'm in the mix now I believe. 

Three plans currently. Rework the cancer ms, put together a collection of short stories with the new ones plus a few older ones that have gathered good responses. Last, put together a collection of poetry that spans the years I've been writing poetry. The very best, the published stuff, filled in with unpublished I like. Submit these to prestigious contests.

LOTS OF WORK, LOTS AND LOTS

Jeez, Louise, 82 people looked in this morning. Thank you folks. Been awhile, I know, but I've been hard at work. Spent three days straightening out the file cards I keep on all my poetry. Things were in a mess, and I found I was sending out poems I'd self-published in my two poetry books, Gray House By Cold Mountain and Tenderfoot [available Amazon or AuthorHouse]. That's a no-no in the publishing world, even though the readership of those books is extremely small.

Just finished a few minutes ago writing another short story I love to pieces called "Lennie". I'm also rewriting the poetry ms about my prostate cancer, You Wake One Morning, Remembering. I'm altering it from second person singular to first person and it will have a new undecided title. The reason I began it second person was some sort of shame or shyness about using first person. Don't ask me why. I don't understand it myself. After all, it's my cancer, my dealing with it, the humor I find in my dealing with it. In fact, I wonder if it's not too humorous in places while in other places showing too much self-pity. It's a complicated book, unlike any other cancer poetry I've read. Lot's of references to movies and personalities in the news of my days.

BEATNIKING THROUGH LIFE WHILE RIDING THE MAX

FB tells me I haven't written in this writer's blog lately, but they always tell me that one or two days after my most recent entry. I put in a good day's work this afternoon on Memoir Of A Nobody. Spent several hours on no more than three paragraphs, writing and rewriting, fine tuning, trying to get the past emotions down just right.

My current emotions are running hot then cold the past two days. Yesterday, I took the Max into Portland, felt recognition of some sort for all my life's work was very near. Everything I've written has been brilliant... then this morning I awake filled with doubt and self-loathing, remembering all the people I've alienated, imagining how no one will come to my funeral. Of course not. I'm not going to have a funeral, no showing, nothing. Wife and I have both decided on how the end of our lives will be without fanfare—drop dead and off to the crematory. 

COLD BEATNIKS THE SILENT BOOMER

cathode ray tube brain injection

My plan was to rewrite just the final 3 chapters one more time because I felt I'd grown careless as the long process of the 11th rewrite drew to a close. So I got two chapters done pretty fast, then a cold struck, and I'm just coming out of that cold. Hope this week to finish the 12th rewrite of the last chapter. I checked into getting someone other than me to print it out, since the publisher wants to receive those old fashioned manuscripts rather than electronic files that are now common in the market place. Boy, colds get me down nowadays, sap my strength and attitude too, but I got a ray injection into my brain. 

BIG BANGED BEATNIK

Eleventh rewrite done. Reduced the novel Ghoul World by 168 pages and by 54,595 words. The last two chapters produce a problem. They are explanatory and introduce a utopian theme to the dystopian ending and they explain all that has gone before for the reader. I kept a lot of things mysterious to the reader till the end. I fear to submit it in this state. I can see it as a movie, and, oh, so much would not be included that is in the novel. What a problem! Could an entirely new vision and revision be required? A 12th rewrite? Good heavens and gadzooks.

BEAT BEAT BEAT AND POPE FRANCIS

A beautiful sunny warm day in Vancouver, and I'm supposed to be writing at the River Maiden. That's our Honda Civic outside, resting in the shade. Didn't sleep well last night. My mind is elephant tired. No day for writing. I'm about 25 pages from finishing the 11th rewrite, and I've been stuck for several days now from being tired or unmotivated. When I'm like this, I'll go over a previous days corrections and find new worse errors. So I shall not write today, even though I got up earlier than usual and started rewriting earlier. Just too tired to care. Will try to walk on Burnt Bridge Creek trail. Maybe a stroll would be better than a walk. If you've read this far, looking for news of Pope Francis, you won't find it. I just thought I'd see how many people ended up here by Googling him. I like him, by the way. Sad he messed up the pedophile situation. His heart seems to be in the right place.

BEAT NEAR END OF REWRITE

A beautiful drizzly warm Vancouver USA day. I'm still poised before my laptop, writing away. I'm at Chapter 51 of the 52 chapter Ghoul World. This rewrite has taken a little more than a month longer than I planned. Hope to finish in another week, two weeks at most. I think writers usually take a little longer on their projects than they guesstimate. 

Photo Marvin Ronsdorf

Chapter 51 introduces a happy surprise—a happy sad ending. I guarantee progressive readers with the environment in mind will be most pleased at the final two chapters. In the last chapter, a possibility for more novels presents itself. At the moment, at age 80 [81 on the 20th of October], I cannot imagine another novel, but the opening is there in case I or another writer would like to pursue it, an ending with a much greater latitude of possibilities than most novels written as serial fiction. I can't tell you why that is true. My revelation would ruin the novel.

BEATNIK JUGGLING LIKE KEN KESEY, DROPPING BALLS

Writers have to know at all times what each character knows

about what's going on, what they've said to each other, what they're hiding from each other and from themselves, and what the writer wants to hide from the reader until it's time to let them in on the plot. At my age, I constantly make mistakes that have to be fixed. It gets harder and harder to fix them because fixing gets pretty complex. Quite often to fix one thing, the writer has to go back through the novel and fix all the problems created by the fix. Then he discovers that the fixes of the fix create other things that need fixing. A cascade of problems, a flood of them, bursts the dam of reality. Kesey gave up writing because, he said, he couldn't keep all the balls in the air anymore. I'm currently stuck, trying to work out one of those problems. I think I might be dropping too many balls. Some may have rolled off the stage, and I didn't see them fall. Discouraging. I don't want to have to go back through this novel an 11th time.

SILENTLY BOOMING ALONG WITH REWRITE

Facebook informed me today that people who look into "The Silent Boomer" hadn't heard from me in a long while. I see it's only nine days. Many times, it's been longer than that. But I have little to say. I'm still on 10th rewrite of Ghoul World. I'm definitely improving it by shortening it. Tell you what.... When I rewrite this many times, I see whole new ways to structure the novel that would shorten it even more, but, then, character would suffer in the hands of expediency. It's a balance in a science fiction mystery novel between character and plot. I've eliminated 2 chapters but added chapters by splitting long chapters into smaller ones. I began this rewrite with 534pp and 157,025 words. Now at 410pp and 116,525 words with 130pp to go. I see no damage at all to plot or character. Big lesson, eh?

About garbage disposal issues. I think I did not need to replace the last unit. Had I read the instruction booklet, I'd have known that in the bottom of the unit is a little red RESET BUTTON. Cost me $200 to learn this lesson. Education is expensive. Always read your manuals, George. Otherwise, savvy plumbers grow rich. College did not teach me about savvy plumbers with trade secrets. However it did teach me not to vote for lying people with dictatorial personalities. Plumbers learn one thing and college graduates learn another—well—most of them do. Who says college graduates won't love dictators?

SEA LIONS AND GARBAGE DISPOSAL PROBLEMS

Vacation retreat. Lovely and right on the beach. Yesterday, Labor Day, was my first attempt to write after more than a week long break, but my mind wouldn't focus. Having the same problem today. I'm giving up for another day. This often happens to me on Mondays after a weekend of not writing. Maybe my mind is adrift because of the garbage disposal unit that went out last night. Can't get someone to install the one I bought at Home Depot until Thursday. I'm just too old to get down on hands and knees for a extended time to do the job myself. Disposal unit burned up while wife and I were having a heated discussion about cooking. A rare event, the heat. And costly too. I'm 80 years old and did not know until yesterday that a disposal will overheat and burn out if you don't run cold water through it even if it's not grinding on anything. I know one needs to run cold water when grinding up garbage, but...? Nothing else new except we learned that the sea lions go missing from Sea Lion Cave as winter approaches. Still, the cave itself was interesting, and they gave us a rain check we can use next year if we go again. Plus two dollar price cut.

BEATNIK'S BIG TOE, F. SCOTT FITZGERALD & J.D. SALINGER

Wow! 118 people took a look at this blog today, and I've not got much to report except a big toe that is infected with cellulitis which "is a potentially dangerous bacterial infection that affects the deeper layers of the skin, including the dermis, or second layer of the skin." Soaking in Epson Salt and using antibacterial unguent and swallowing antibacterial pills. Lesson learned? "Do not pull hangnails off of toes". 

Rewrite of Ghoul World is proceeding apace. Came upon a scifi publisher attached to Penguin that is accepting unagented manuscripts. Rare. Very rare. I must hurry to finish the current rewrite of the novel and send it in to that publisher before the window closes again. I keep seeing the book as a movie. The cinematic effects will be really fascinating. A world of workaday zombies who call themselves "ghouls". 

Current reading? Poetry and  The Great Gatsby for the 4th or so time. Fitzgerald and Salinger—I never tire of them.