THE SILENT BOOMER/ MORE POET THAN FICTION WRITER?

Coming home from drive on Rte 14

What can I say? Haven't made an entry here for ages. One reason is that I can't find this blog on my desktop computer, and Mertie is using my laptop for working at home. I am having more problems with technology than I can describe here. Smartphone is awful to deal with, and no one these days gives a damn about customer service. I carry around an image in my brain of smug young people sitting around laughing at my efforts to communicate.

A reason for not writing? No coffee shops to write in and no laptop, as I said. What I've been doing is driving around the beautiful Pacific Northwest. Driving around has always been a stress reliever for me. 

Some good news. Adelaide will be publishing four poems later this month. Still waiting for next issue of Zero Dark Thirty to come out with another poem recently accepted.  

Now out to drive around in the rain. I don't mind rainy driving. It has it's pleasures too. 

BEATNIKING IT ON THE ROAD

I'm still alive. You'd think I'd stay home and write my head off, but staying home feels like prison. No more coffee shops to write in. Have been getting out on the road and driving, listening to jazz, making videos. But, hit or miss, I have polished off two more short stories that I began months ago but set aside when they weren't going anywhere. So I'm happy enough, waiting for my poem to appear in Zero Dark Thirty.

Have weird feeling from time to time before I set out each day to drive or get a soy chai that no one is outside anymore, but, there they are at the Starbucks for "grab and go" service only. The Vancouver Mall is closed currently for at least two weeks. Some small businesses are really getting hurt. The potential for this Covid-19 is awful, but if too many people feel as I do—not very scared at all—then they'll be doing risky business for seniors like myself. What is only a cold for a young dancer in a bar is death for a guy at the supermarket. 

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PHILIP ROTH AND SILENT BEATNIK BOOMER ME

Nothing new to report except that some more short stories are appearing in my head out of the magical realm of the imagination. Still waiting for my copy of Zero Dark Thirty magazine with my lyric poem in it. It will be April, as I said, before I hear from Plainsongs about "one or more" of my poems there that have gone to the final readers. I got on the ball during the past weekend and sent out a short story and several groups of poems to various markets. 

Mertie and I are watching Sharp Objects an 8 episode limited series. I like those better than endless series that don't end till people get tired of the sameness of them. 

I'm trying to read Philip Roth's The Plot Against America.

Watched an interesting film Thoroughbreds last night, about two mentally ill young women. I liked it, but then, my taste is not the most popular taste. 

Can't believe it's been three weeks since last entry. 

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.

BEATNIK BATTLES ICE AND SNOW

Just got another one. That's three rejections of my recent stories with invitations to send more work. Feels almost as good as an acceptance. Feels like I'm just under an ice surface, poking at it with an ice pick. I know where the image comes from. Wife and I recently watched first season of Fargo, the TV series. If you've seen it, you know where the ice image comes from and the thought of being trapped under the ice.

Lately, my work has stopped entirely. I live with a sort of dizzy, old age lethargy. Hard to generate a creative thought out of it. I may talk to the doctor about the dizziness, but, long ago, a doctor told me it's common with old age and likely to get worse. Over the years it has gotten worse. Too many days of it now. But, today, dizziness or not, I'm going to work on a story I began a month ago. See if I can feel my way to a creative ending, an entertaining middle, an enticing start. Of course, I can always work on the short story ms for submission to the most prestigious contests. Maybe all the stories together will generate a more positive energy. Enough to make a breakthrough.