Skip to main content

Anthologized

I’m not afraid of electronic publication.  Despite the fact that it could all be wiped out by a comet’s tail or power surge, it is clearly the way of the future.  Some of my earliest stories have, in fact, already disappeared as servers have shut down, reverting rights along with words.

My earliest pieces appeared in Danse Macabre, a literary journal that seems to get what I’m trying to do.  Certainly the vast majority of literary magazines don’t “get” me, as I’ve had a great deal of trouble finding editors who’ll give my tales a chance.  I was pleased, then, to see myself as a part of two anthologies by Hammer and Anvil Press.

Hammer and Anvil—a most appropriate name—is the book-publishing side of Danse Macabre’s Adam Henry Carrière, the first editor to take a chance on my fiction.  I discovered two of my stories in anthologies, and I am very pleased that they still have a little staying power.

Stories are memes that we cast out into the universe.  Those that are caught can spread, and, hopefully, get some notice.  If successful, they spread on to another generation.  Most of my memes lie in a deep meme pool on my laptop.  I hope there’s some life in them yet.



While awaiting a willing publisher for my first novel (actually novel number four, but the first one I’ve attempted to publish), I sometimes busy myself with short stories.  At least forty of them populate my hard drive.  Some want to escape very badly.  They are, however, sensitive to rejection.

Whenever I receive a rejection letter I assume the fault is my own, and I begin rewriting the story again.  It is the rare tale that makes it out twice without some kind of revision taking place in the meantime.


That’s what’s so satisfying about being in an anthology.  Someone liked the story enough the first time around to think that someone might even pay a little money to read it again.  I’m flattered, and unspeakably pleased to be anthologized.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Dusty

  My, this thing is dusty.   My fans—hi, Mom!—perhaps believe me to have perished in the pandemic.   No, it was nonfiction’s fault. Since the pandemic began I’ve had two nonfiction books published and have written a third.   With a nine-to-five job something’s got to give.   Unfortunately it’s been fiction. Well, the groundhog didn’t see his shadow yesterday, so it must be safe to come out.   I shuffled away the rejection notes and began submitting again.   I’ve got a backlog of weird stories and maybe some new publishers have emerged? The thing is, don’t you just hate it when you’re in the mood to submit and some lit journal has its window for submissions firmly shut?   My last story, “ The Hput, ” was published about three years ago.   Oh, I’ve submitted since then, but with no traction.   Well, it is winter. I’ve got a lot of stories lined up.   I’ve been sending them out again, dreaming of making a dime at what I love doing best.   When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

Too Much Writing?

  Has this ever happened to you?   Have you written a story that you’ve completely forgot?   Not only completely forgotten, but made unfindable?   I play games with my stories and sometimes the joke’s on me. Okay, I suffer from graphomania.   I write constantly.   I do try to keep organized—I use a spreadsheet that has all my submissions on it.   It has rejection/acceptance dates (mostly rejection).   Lots of information. I decided to list on it every story, whether finished or in process.   There are far too many (mostly in process).   When I finish a story I often submit it.   If I get burned, I’m shy about resubmitting.   I often rewrite at this stage.   Then, when I feel brave enough, I try again. The spreadsheet is color-coded.   There, in the color that indicates finished and ready to submit is a story cryptically titled “The Password.”   I don’t remember this story.   I can’t recall what it was about or why I thought it was ready to publish. Looking through my electronic files,

The Same Old Story

After a story is rejected from a literary magazine—a rather frequent occurrence—I always revise it.  For stories rejected half a dozen or more times—a rather frequent occurrence—the stories can shift substantially.   In a version of the old saw that “this is the axe used by George Washington to chop down the cherry tree; it has had five new handles and three new heads,” I wonder if the story is the same after such revision.  I write in the flush of inspiration.  The story comes to me roughly complete. The literati say “no,” and I assume the fault must be my own.  I knuckle down and start trying to revise to their liking.  The action changes.  The ending changes.  The characters change.  Is it the same story? Is the fault that my addled brain seems to have trouble telling a story someone wants to read?  Is it the curse of an internet that makes writers of anyone with fingers to type?  I started writing fiction four decades ago.  If I’d tried to start publishing then, perhap