MYNA BIRD BEATNIK

Eighty-six people checked in so time for another entry. I sent off a short story ms to a prestigious competition. I believe I have no chance. A name writer will have the best chance. The press will want to make money on their publication. A name draw will do that. Still, I had fun putting the ms together—stories written in many styles over the years. In truth, I think I've been a myna bird kind of writer. A copycat of styles. I read something and a story pops into mind in that writer's voice. The stories in the ms represent Hammett, Allen [Woody], Carver, Hemingway, Salinger... at least that many voices. Maybe Dickens in spots. I don't seem to have developed a voice of my own. Maybe I'm just an inauthentic character in someone's novel without a voice of my own.

At SIU during my first stab at a Masters In English, a fellow TA [Terry Brown] asked me to type up a ms for him, a paper he wrote on Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travels. I couldn't help myself and began to imitate Swift's style, altering the style of my friend's paper quite a bit. He couldn't believe I'd done such a thing. Looking back, I can't believe I did it either.

I've written 17 stories in the past two months. Reading Carver set them off. Him being a recovered alcoholic might have something to do with my sounding like him and their themes being similar. I seem to be happiest when I'm writing or when I'm in my wife's company. 

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 THE RAPIDS

 Photo by Ivana Cajina @unsplash

What more can I say? I've been roughing out a story every couple of days. Found a groove that works and that I trust. Will have to go back for rewrites, of course, but I like how these tales adhere to reality as I've experienced it and think about it. I tell you this...some of the trick is to change the names and tell it like it was. Words pouring out like rushing waters. Would not imagine that an 81 year old could feel this rejuvinated as a writer.

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE HUCKLEBERRY

The rewritten "All About Jane" has already been rejected by a magazine called Chestnut Review which collected a fat $5 fee for considering it. They took all of 5 days to consider it. Fair to say I get rejected a lot. Most writers do unless they have huge name recognition, but 5 days and $5? Makes me think it could be a scam. Easy... form a magazine, put it into Poets & Writers Magazine and charge a $5 reading fee. Publish the magazine online for very low cost and make at least pocket money rather than lose money as I did publishing George & Mertie's Place. Most magazines these days use Submittable to handle mss and Submittable gets $3 to handle a ms. Fair enough, but $5? I'm tearing up my file card for that market. Too suspicious. 

by rob mulally @unsplash

Good news on the other hand. One of my poems has been accepted by current Washington State Poet Laureate Claudia Castro Luna. It appears on the map. You will find the poem by clicking on the red button about 2/3 of the way on Interstate 90 from Spokane to Seattle. A very handy blip on I-90 occurs just below the red dot. The dot represents Huckleberry Mountain in the North Cascades whose name is in the title of my poem "Group Encounter at Huckleberry Mountain".

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. 

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. 

SILENT BOOMER BEATNIK'S LAST HURRAY................MAYBE

Ninety-nine people recently looked in. Thank you. Three of my haiku may be found on the website Better Than Starbucks. They also appear in a hard copy edition that can be found here.
 
I haven't written anything for days. I'm tired a lot. The memoir languishes. Poetry is hiding out in my synaptic self somewhere beyond my prefrontal cortex. I'm not certain, but I fear my writing days may be over. I have ideas but not energy to get to work. Only time will tell. I'm now reading The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer. I took a course in Chaucer as an undergraduate and read the work in its original Middle English. 

My bathroom reading is Ray Carver's Will You Please Be Quiet Please. I met him once in a coffee shop at Eastern Washington University. When I asked him where his stories came from, he replied, "I don't know. I just hope they keep coming."