Thursday, July 31, 2014
I'm back. I want to try my old friend, BlogSpot. Let's just see how she rolls. I have over 38k views, which sounds like a nice number. I feel like I'll get more traffic, and I'm fickle.
Stuff in the works:
my paranormal MG in the hands of one of the best, Jenny Bent. I'm holding my breath.
One flash fiction accepted and published in Literary Orphans, thank you Mike Joyce.
Tin House editor, Thomas Ross, emailed me, assuring me my short story was still being considered. Holding my breath.
I have one in the works, longer one, good one. I just have to get to it.
And last but not least: the sad state of my literary dystopian novel--THE SEIZED aka THE ROSE WING and LOVE ME SWEET. What has become of it? stagnant. queries out. that's it. what to do. wait.
The idea that this one will never be read, NEVER, is not an option. Still, I'll bide my time. Maybe rework the query. I imagine it, posted up on AQC, the thrashing it most definitely would receive. I can't bring myself to rewrite the query. I like it that much. QUERY LINK
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Reread this story (in collection) one of my favorite shorts, favorite scenes. Salinger captures Seymour Glass's psychological dysfunction perfectly. His dialogue is stellar.
On the sub-main floor of the hotel, which the management directed bathers to use, a woman with zinc salve on her nose got into the elevator with the young man.
"I see you're looking at my feet," he said to her when the car was in motion.
"I beg your pardon?" said the woman.
"I said I see you're looking at my feet."
"I beg your pardon. I happened to be looking at the floor," said the woman, and faced the doors of the car.
"If you want to look at my feet, say so," said the young man. "But don't be a God-damned sneak about it."
"Let me out here, please," the woman said quickly to the girl operating the car.
The car doors opened and the woman got out without looking back.
"I have two normal feet and I can't see the slightest God-damned reason why anybody should stare at them," said the young man. "Five, please." He took his room key out of his robe pocket.
He got off at the fifth floor, walked down the hall, and let himself into 507. The room smelled of new calfskin luggage and nail-lacquer remover.
He glanced at the girl lying asleep on one of the twin beds. Then he went over to one of the pieces of luggage, opened it, and from under a pile of shorts and undershirts he took out an Ortgies calibre 7.65 automatic. He released the magazine, looked at it, then reinserted it. He cocked the piece. Then he went over and sat down on the unoccupied twin bed, looked at the girl, aimed the pistol, and fired a bullet through his right temple.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Flash accepted by The Milo Review Spring Edition (online and print).
Editor, Peter Jelen, of Bareback Magazine contacted me with the good news that the editors have selected “Coveted” for their upcoming anthology.
“The Seized” will be published this month (Jan 24th) in Linguistic Erosion.
I have a few works still being considered.
I have included a poem of mine. Weird, maybe. I don't know if it is any good or not. It's not a flowery poem. It's dark and depressing. I imagine there was a young girl, at some point in time, kept up in the cabin of some larger boat, maybe a yacht, fishing boat(Libertas) and some sailor that has his way with her.
“No signs of sun.”
maybe a little sin
Sailor rubs a sweaty brow
White caps lap, slap, the sides
In the cabin below--
an indecent gleam;
a lavish teak;
a girl -ashen, meek,
swoons in silent rush.
lands on deck in gentle hush.
After shots of JD,
Blue tuna peppered, flayed,
for the impaling.
Friday, January 3, 2014
My year has begun with good news: Heard from Cheryl Anne Gardner, author and editor. Found a perfect home for "Phobia" in Apocrypha and Abstractions-- I'm pleased, once again.
I have a few others out that I hope will not remain displaced--one in particular is "Pearl" and "Shroud for Gretta". Another is a longer piece "Sins of Elliot" which is part of bigger work--dystopian. But with my new publication "Phobia" I have a new idea brewing. I need to get off the fence, decide. I know these shorter pieces are making me procrastinate. But maybe, that's the thing with writing, in the process, I will find a better route.
Speaking of indecisiveness, I'm torn about which blog to use. I feel most comfortable with my old friend, BlogSpot. so I'm sort of returning here, in a sort of ambiguous fashion.
Enjoy, share, and comment (thanks!)
Happy New Year!
Thursday, December 12, 2013
I Stumbled upon some great poetry by a Connecticut resident, David Morse.
I've included a sample (below)
Actually, I didn't just find Mr. Morse, by chance. I had a friend once, a mentor, a talented professor and poet. I took one of her poetry courses at the University of Connecticut. Her name was Joan Joffe Hall. She loved my narrative poetry (more than me) and encouraged my writing. She wrote me letters of recommendation. When I won the Jennie Hackman Memorial Award for Short Fiction, she put an arm around me and said "You got it...the Hackman." It was a poignant moment, for me. I won a thousand dollars,(I was in shock...for a story!) an opportunity to read from my story "Yielding", and publication in the Long River Review. It was the first time I took myself seriously as a fiction writer. My English professors inquired about my writing, asked me what I planned on doing. I had no idea why they asked, or what I might do. I completed graduate school, became an English teacher, and, later, when I couldn't quit the writing bug, Joan helped me get into an MFA program (which I decided to quit). She was always rooting for me, even if we didn't keep in touch, she was on my mind. I was going to forward her my latest publications, small gains but something, and I discovered she had passed on in September, 2013. David Morse was her talented husband.
"Honor the Stones", from David's chapbook. Available from Dogwood Press.
Waiting for Spring
I take the first pew in this rough church,
seat myself on flat stones and look up
at fractured bedrock bulging skyward,
vertical black stripe painted by groundwater
curved into a bow, picture the arrow flying
across the valley and try not to think about
Darfur, or the woman at the embassy of Sudan
whose job is to delay requests for visas,
or flies dabbling in a dead baby's wound,
women's eyes dulled by rape and loss
of everything; helicopter gunships, devils
on horseback. This is Connecticut,
green land waiting for spring to untie
the black knot of winter. Soon will come
choirs of spring peepers, skunk cabbage.
Last night on a hill I inhaled the soft
sweet fragrance of maple sap funneling
moonlit steam into the shape of Africa.
Links to Joan Joffe Hall's publications