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Showing posts from 2019

The Last Day

So, it’s the last day of 2019.   I awoke this morning to find a rejection letter in my inbox.   I say “good riddance” to this past year, although it had a little publishing success.   It was better than 2018 in that regard. I’ve got a young writing partner.   She hasn’t published anything yet, but she’s one of the natural best writers I know.   We encourage each other when the going’s rough.   She ended up in the hospital in 2019, and when visiting her she got me to submit some stories again.   Facing an illness will do that to you. Of the stories I sent in during 2019 two were accepted for publication and one won honorable mention in a contest (but alas, wasn’t published).   I sent out a bunch more late in the year and this morning’s rejection may be—it’s too early to tell—the last of blessed 2019. I don’t let my failures stop me from writing.   I’ve got a fourth nonfiction book under contract and nearly ready to submit.   While waiting to get the research

Without Crutches

Several years ago now I wrote a story called “Without Crutches.”   Ah, distinctly I remember, it was before the wonderful journal Glimmer Train closed down.   I was going through one of my phases of actually reading journals before submitting, and I’d read a tale or two in said Train about characters with addictions. Perhaps going back to the almost mythic Edgar Allan Poe, writers have struggled with mind-altering substances.   Those of us who write see the world so differently and crave new experiences in an almost manic way.   Alcohol, drugs, and even religion can lead that way. “Without Crutches” was a story defending writing without using foreign substances.   As the child of an alcoholic, this path looks quite dark to me.   Besides, my imagination has a healthy libido.   Yes, even sex can lead to altered states of consciousness.   Of course, my story found no publishers. I recently read about Stephen King.   Actually, I read about him often.   I hadn’t real

Meh Teh

Man is this blog dusty!   The neglect isn’t willful, I assure you.   The thing about being a working writer is, well, work.   That combined with the fact that there’s life outside the internet that demands your time. In any case, I’m chuffed that my story “Meh Teh” has appeared in The Colored Lens .   The title is a Himalayan word for what westerners call “yeti.”   As with most of my fiction, however, there’s a deeper story.   And deeper stories often involve belief. It’s funny how easily religion can turn off a conversation.   Yet, I was recently at a book festival where several of the more successful authors I met were quite open about their religious convictions.   Perhaps it’s hiding in plain sight.   Like a yeti. I have to admit that I’ve never been to Nepal, or even India.   I made it to a corner of Asia once in my youth, but I like writing about places I imagine.   I recall studying maps as a child so that I could set stories in Spain or France.   I did man

Will Write for Money

I suppose I should get over it.   I feel mercenary about writing for money.   Almost as if I’ve sold out.   What a strange way to announce my first story accepted for publication for pay.   Don’t get me wrong—I’m absolutely thrilled.   I’ve received prize money for my writing before, but getting paid to have someone publish it is new. This past week two bits of good news arrived on the same day.   My story “Meh-Teh” was accepted by The Colored Lens , and they’re a paying venue.   Simultaneously my story “Creative Writing Club” received honorable mention in Typehouse ’s second biennial short fiction contest.   I literally had to go for a jog after opening the emails just to clear my head. You see, I’ve been writing fiction for forty years.   I sent my first story in for publication a decade ago.   It won a contest.   Then the rejections began rolling in.   I’ve lost track of how many there have been.   Indeed, in this latest batch of stories I’ve sent out, I’ve a

No Advice

Write and you’ll get advice.   Some years ago I signed up for Medium, a social network with many writers.   Now I get daily advice from the website, sometimes helpful, sometimes not.   You see, there’s no wrong way to write. Days after receiving the happy news that Ghostlight had accepted “The Pain of a Caterpillar” for publication, The Colored Lens emailed to say they were seriously considering “Meh-Teh” for their next edition.   It’s not the same as an acceptance, but a struggling writer takes all the signs of hope offered. Rod Serling, about whom I’ve written before, had a quote about writing that has stuck with me, although I can’t remember the exact words.   He noted that only writers understand the pain of rejection in the way with which we’re all so familiar.   As usual, he said it much more eloquently.   Still, having someone say “Maybe” is better than the more familiar “No.” I call myself a struggling writer because I’ve been at this for over fort

Caterpillar Pain

Every great once in a while something extraordinary happens.   As I mentioned in my last post, I really hadn’t submitted fiction for publication for almost three years.   (I had a couple of non-fiction projects going.)   About three weeks ago I began submitting again. I have a backlog of stories ready to go.   That backlog is now one story less.   “The Pain of a Caterpillar” was accepted, to my great delight, by Ghostlight: The Magazine of Terror .   I’ve finally broken the magical number of twenty short stories accepted for publication. The truly remarkable thing, however, was the alacrity with which it was accepted.   I have been writing fiction for over forty years and never had a story accepted on the same day it was submitted before.   I was absolutely thrilled. As a writer, fewer things make you feel as validated as acceptance.   You have to go through an awful lot of rejection to get there.   This particular story was one I was particularly fond of.   It ti

Spreading the Sheet

I used to tell a young friend interested in writing that there’s no right or wrong way to do it.   While I write in some form every day—lately it has been non-fiction—I have been wondering if I go about my fiction the right way.   I wonder this because I keep a spreadsheet. This spreadsheet contains information about every submission I’ve made: the date sent, to which magazine, word count, and response.   I color-code everything so I can tell at a glance if a story’s still awaiting a publisher or not. While looking at this spreadsheet recently, I noticed that it had been two or three years since I’d tried to get any fiction published.   Well, apart from my novel (which is also on the spreadsheet); I sent it to an agent who turned it down earlier this year.   What I noticed about my submissions is that they tend to happen in June. I’m not a student and I’m no longer a teacher, so June has no special connection with free time.   I do, however, tend to send out lots

Agent Secret

Just yesterday I found out another academic colleague is a wannabe novelist.   Unaware that I had written six novels and more short stories than I can count (I don’t have that many fingers), she asked me if I knew anything about getting an agent.   My response: I know a lot about NOT getting an agent. You see, a friend of mine knows an agent.   He introduced us via email.   The agent kindly agreed to consider my Medusa novel, even though two weeks later he forgot who I was.   At least he read it.   No other agent has.   Didn’t sway him, though. I spend some time on Medium.com .   They have some great stuff about writing.   They won’t care to read much of your stuff unless you’ve had more success than I have, but then, I’ve got a nine-to-five and I take my writing way too seriously. Hearing from my professorial colleague got me excited about my fiction again.   Problem is I’ve got a non-fiction tome under contract and a deadline nearing.   If there were 36-ho

Courting Agency

So I finally got an agent to talk to me.   That doesn’t mean he’ll represent me, but he knows, at least a little of, who I am.   This didn’t come about through a web search and cold call.   He agreed to talk to me because we have a mutual friend. This friend I have never met.   He contacted me after reading a blog post.   We subsequently talked by phone.   He emails me often.   He’s a real booster.   Turns out he’s a writer too.   Those of us who write need one another. My friend doesn’t know my pseudonym.   In fact, most friends to whom I’ve revealed it have forgotten.   They grow weary of waiting until I break through.   Until they can say “I knew him when.”   Of what does breaking through consist? Twenty of my short stories have been published.   My fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Write Well Award (Silver Pen Writers Association), and the Best of the Web Award.   I won the Danse Macabre 2009 prix d’écriture de Noël in Fiction, and

Holy Horror

My friend Steve likes horror movies.   It’s something we share in common, and it’s one of the things that brought us together back in college.   He recently published a book that some horror fans will enjoy— Holy Horror . The idea here—Steve used to teach biblical studies—is that you can learn quite a bit about the Bible from watching horror movies.   It’s an interesting idea because a lot of conservative Christians believe horror is evil.   From the Devil, even. I find this kind of book interesting because it bring two unexpected fields together.   I write horror stories.   (I’ve got one ready to go, if I can only find the time to get it through Submittable.)   I watch horror movies.   Who would think of finding the Bible in such places? His larger point, I think, is that horror and religion are closely related.   That I can get!   Have you seen the how the evangelicals behave lately?   How they rally around Trump?   There’s horror right there! Reading this,

Dust or Rusty?

My, is this thing ever dusty!   The problem with dual identities is that they’re, well, dual.   The working writer has to make a living.   Making a living interferes with being a writer. It’s no secret that I write under a pseudonym.   In certain professions writing is discouraged.   The only way I can get away with writing the fiction I do is by saying “It’s not me!”   I know I’m in good company here.   The average person can’t identify Samuel Clemens. No, I don’t mind the nom de guerre per se, but I resent a work life that doesn’t value the writer.   It’s not just editors, either.   There was a guy in my company who wasn’t an editor.   He quit to become a writer and the general attitude to his leaving was a smirk. Yes, it’s difficult to make a living as a writer.   Unless you get an agent you won’t make much in royalties.   You can’t quit your day job.   And aside from the many hours sapped from your life-force by work, some jobs declare that you shouldn’t writ