A felicitous bit of unexpected delirium came my way as I received news that one of my stories had been accepted for publication in Danse Macabre. That magazine reserves a bishop’s throne of reverence in my psyche as the first place willing to publish my efforts at finding a voice.
Not exactly a neophyte at fiction—I have been writing since grade school days—publication has been an uphill forced march in an icy rain for me. I finished my first novel last century, in 1988. Like many first novels, it sucked. It didn’t seem that way to me at the time.
Nothing is a better assassin to good fiction than academic writing. Trying to establish a career in higher education, I wrote a couple of dry books and some articles, always trying to up the bar a little on style and panache. Most publishers were not amused.
I was 47 years old when my first fiction piece was published. In Danse Macabre. It won special mention as a macabre Christmas tale, and I had long been thrilled at the chic and hip tone and style of the magazine. Joy unspeakable and a little gory.
Since 2009, Danse Macabre has turned multiple favorable eyes toward my work while other publishers routinely assign extra demons to the slush pile hell in which I generally find myself. There are few outlets for weird fiction these days. Thank goodness for those who still appreciate dancing skeletons.
Danse Macabe is one of the few places where I don’t have to try to pander to the critics. Others have not much appreciated the depth that is hidden in my stories, for writing is an act of evisceration, a glorious vivisection of the soul. To have it rejected is to find someone else’s jackboots in my offal.
Thanks, Danse Macabre! My hat is tipped to you, and perhaps my head is still inside!
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