Thoughts on growing older

It's been almost six weeks since I posted last, but it has been a busy time.

On the writing front, my son and I have been hammering out a rewrite of our screenplay, Black Rock, which we hope to see filmed next summer (2010) in West Virginia. If all goes well, he will be directing it, too.

We're both excited, the production company that optioned it are saying money is looking good, but we are ready to move on to a new project.

I've been writing on my own, as well (for reports on that, check out my writing blog, A Moving Line). And I am flying to Lawrence, Kansas next Saturday for a two-week-long writers' workshop conducted by a science fiction great, James Gunn. Teaching fiction was his "day job" while he wrote and he still is involved in the operation of The Center for the Study of Science Fiction at the University of Kansas in Lawrence.

I dug around in my book storage boxes last week and found a copy of Future Imperfect, Gunn's collection of short stories published in 1964. I bought it new and it's still in pretty good shape, although the pages have yellowed. The price, printed on the cover for all to see was forty cents.

And that brings me to something I have been mulling upon.

It occurs to me that one of the reasons that it has been six weeks since I have posted is that the days go by so quickly. Does it seem that way to you? That the older you get, the faster times goes by.

My son was thirty-one June 11th.

Rachael and I have been in Seattle for eighteen months now and it seems like just yesterday that we made that non-stop trip here.

She just had another birthday Wednesday and when we went out for pizza to celebrate, she told me that she felt as if the years were picking up speed, as well.

We've been together ten years now.

I can't help but wonder where does the time go?

Shakespeare had MacBeth say:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

I don't want to get all maudlin here, but I'm feeling a bit like that idiot tonight.

At every day poets

My poem, Late Night Considerations, is the featured piece at Every Day Poets today.

It’s my fourth appearance and it has to do with a subject near to my heart and mind.

LNC considers ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night. And don’t tell me you’ve never lay in bed at night, wide awake, heart skiddering, thinking, “What is that noise in the closet?”

If you would like to check it out, it’s here.

There and back again

The Saturday just past, I was given the opportunity to once again discover that kindness toward strangers still exists in our increasingly paranoid world.

I drove to Vancouver, British Columbia, for a book launch and signing. You may recall that one of my pieces of flash fiction, Hair of the Dog, is in print in The Best of Every Day Fiction 2008.

Kevin Shamel, another Pacific Northwest writer with stories in the book, rode along and we were having a swell time gabbing as we headed north.

Then, just south of the border, approaching Blaine, my car began to make strange noises. We limped into Blaine, the front of the X-Terra billowing smoke, and stopped at the Blaine Mini-Mart.

What Kevin and I know about automobile engines would only fill a very short story. Inside, I asked Judy if there was a repair shop that might be open Saturday. Minutes later, we were on the phone to Alley Auto Parts and Service, but there was no answer.

And then an angel spoke up. Her name was Marlene [thank you, Kevin], she was in the store visiting, had listened to our tale of woe and she offered to give us a lift to Alley Auto. And when I asked about the nearest car rental location, Marlene said that would be the Bellingham airport (thirty miles away).

"Don't worry," she said. "I can take you down there, too."

Long story shorter, we made it to Alley Auto, where Rich agreed to trailer the X-Terra to his shop and check it out, and then rolled down the interstate to Bellingham, where we rented a car, so that we could go on the Vancouver.

And we practically had to twist Marlene's arm to accept money for gasoline.

As if that weren't enough, Rich had the car ready to drive back to Seattle at noon on Sunday, when we rolled back through Blaine, and the repair costs were a fraction of what it would have cost me to tow the X-Terra south.

Thank you, Marlene. Thank you, Rich. Thank you, Judy. I cannot begin to tell you how much your unquestioning kindness meant to me.

At Residential Aliens

My micro-flash, Anastasia, went on-line today at Lyn Perry's Residential Aliens. It's only two hundred words, so anything I might say about it could be longer than the story, so I'll just mention that I'm pleased with it and happy Lyn liked it, too. Thanks bunches, Lyn!

At Static Movement

If you're looking for something to read, A Bannockburn Night, my take on a Lake Superior legend, is on-line now at Static Movement.

It's a ghost story, of a sort, and an experiment for me in character voice. It's told first person and the narrator is a retired boat captain, a fellow in his eighties who is down-to-the-ground genuine; the sort who may lack imagination, but makes up for it in intelligence and integrity. I would be interested to hear what you think.

Three things before you go.

First, it's pronounced Ba-Nock-Burn, with emphasis on the second syllable; The boat in the story was a real vessel and it was named for a village in Scotland where a famous battle took place during the Scottish War for independence from Great Britain.

Next, I know about the commas. I have been working to rid my stories of adverbs and now I have to whittle away at all the commas.

Finally, those big ore freighters are called boats, not ships. It's a Great Lakes thing.

Playing the waiting game

The established authors that I talk to and read about all say that getting published is a combination of talent, luck and persistence, with the latter being perhaps the most important.

You've got to keep writing and you must keep submitting; like falling off a bicycle or being thrown from a horse, you have to get back up and back on. Got to send rejected stories right back out to other markets.

Dreaming about writing as a profession, that was always the part I worried over; I have never been very good at rejection. But now that I am persisting, now that I am working hard to accept rejection as a necessary thing, it appears that I am faced with another stumbling block and it begins with the letter P, as well.

Patience.

Like rejection, being patient is something for which I have never had much, well, patience. I have always favored that old cartoon of the two vultures, in which one says to the other, "I'm tired of waiting; I'd rather just go kill something."

Case in point. At the moment, I have five stories that have been accepted at four publications (one is an e-zine, and three are print publications) and all five are setting, twiddling figurative thumbs, waiting for spots in future issues that range from January to September 2009.

I am grateful to Jordan and Camille at Every Day Fiction, who were the first to accept my stories, but perhaps my success there (a story each month from July through November) has spoiled me.

It has come to me that a publication that presents a story every day consumes submitted fiction at a ferocious rate, resulting in a much shorter interval between submission and appearance. That realization gives me an ever greater respect for what the folks at EDF have accomplished (and continue to accomplish) and an admiration of their persistence.

So now I have to work on patience. Perhaps I will adopt the famous little prayer from Alcoholics Anonymous. You know the one.

God, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
the courage to change the things I can;
and the wisdom to know the difference.

But I'd rather just go -- well, you know what I mean.

The Best of Every Day Fiction 2008

Here's a nice piece of good news. The 2008 Every Day Fiction anthology is out and I am in it.

To be accurate, my story, Hair of the Dog, is one of the one hundred pieces of flash fiction selected from the three-hundred and sixty-five stories to appear in EDF during it's first year of operation.

It's a lovely book filled with great stories. If you are interested in buying a copy, hardbound or paperback, here's the link: The Best of Every Day Fiction 2008.

A thoughtful no is still a no, but ..

E-mail last night from Scott Andrews, editor at Beneath Ceaseless Skies.

It was a rejection on Coward's Steel. I had had hopes for the story; The new on-line publication is a class act and I would be so chuffed (as my Brit friend Sarah likes to say) if I could be a part of it.

So, I was disappointed, but Scott included the sort of "here's why I said no" message a writer, trying to establish a reputation, hopes to receive from an editor.

Here's what he said, when he could have just said, "No."

The opening was vivid, and the situation between Tate and Sarah seemed interesting even though I didn't fully understand it. But the main problem for me was that I didn't feel a deep core yearning from Tate, a strong character goal driving her. Without such a goal, and the curiosity or worry it would generate in me as I wondered whether she would be able to achieve it, the physical plot of her entering the village didn't hold my interest.

Such critical feedback, from someone you hope to sell a story to, is so cool. It's just as cool that I understand what it is he is suggesting; my only worry is that I'm not quite sure I am far enough along as a writer to do it. But I'm going to try.

My father, who is something of a genius when it comes to fixing things mechanical, has always told me that the first step in fixing something is finding out what it is about the thing that's broken.

I think that's good advice for writing fiction, as well.

BTW: Thank you, Scott. You'll be hearing from me again.

Keeping my pencil sharp

I spent this week rewriting four stories that have been setting in the drawer for awhile; whittled them down from almost twenty thousand words, total, to just under sixteen thousand.

Writing flash fiction has done wonders for my understanding of what needs to be in a story and what is just my loose tongue and fingers. Four thousand words, and not a single one of the stories suffered. They are still the same tales; just tighter and better told.

I submitted all four; Toward Heaven Still, the longest at almost ten thousand words, went to Abyss & Apex. Its post-apocalyptic, set in what was the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and is the tale of Apple Jack, an old man with a big green thumb and a small magic that shows him how all things fit together.

I've got acceptances back on two of them. Lyn Perry at Resident Aliens, took Anastasia, a two-hundred word piece of flash about a family reunion of sorts; Rick DeCost at The Absent Willow Review, a new venue, accepted And Bay the Moon, which suggests that jogging can be hazardous to your health.

I also got the nod from Jordan and Camille, who were so kind as to say yes to Upon the Doorsteps, my sixth acceptance at Every Day Fiction.

On the flip side, Abyss & Apex rejected Bringing in the Dead. They had nice things to say about it, but suggested that it "wanted to be a longer piece".

So, maybe not everything should be whittled down, hmm?

On the way to submissions

It was an eventful week; writing.

I sent off six stories; one of them is an ultra-short, just one hundred and twenty-eight words, but the rest are longer pieces than I have been attempting.

The longest, Coward's Steel, is almost five-thousand words. It's post-holocaust fantasy that went to Beneath Ceaseless Skies, a market I would love to crack.

Getting them ready for submission, I was reminded of inspecting my children, before sending them off to school.

I had such high hopes, when the kids marched out the door, and I feel the same way about my fiction. You pray that their faces stay clean and nothing is misspelled; that their shirt-tails are tucked in and word choices are perfect.

And no matter how old they become, or how elusive success may be for them, you always believe that with just a bit more work, they can make the grade. My son and daughter are both bestsellers, so I expect my fiction will find its way into print, one way or another.

Anyway, I got e-mail back, almost right away, on two of those six stories.

Chris Bartholomew accepted A Bannockburn Night for the December issue of Static Movement; it is two-thousand words. And Frank Byrns, at A Thousand Faces, said yes to A Son of the Night; it weighs in at just under three-thousand words.

The first is a ghost story of sorts that takes place in 1948, upon the chill waters of Lake Superior; the second introduces Rory Mathersby and his alter ego, Gargoyle, Seattle's Gray Guardian. A Thousand Faces specializes in super hero fiction. It's a quarterly print publication, so Rory's story won't be available to read until sometime next year.

I also got a rejection notice this week that made me laugh.

The folks at Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, an Australian pulp for speculative fiction, said no to This Little Piggie.

They said it was "a deliciously dark revisiting of a much loved tale". But they also said they "liked this joke the first time. And the second time too. And even the third. But ..."

They were right, of course; it is a retelling of the classic Pig Joke. You know the punchline; "A special pig like this one, you don't eat him all at once."

I am intrigued by the way jokes travel about, and so I was delighted to learn that one of my favorites had made the rounds down under.

Hope does jump back up, though. I'll find an editor somewhere who hasn't heard that punchline.

At Every Day Fiction

My flash fiction, Oh, Woman of Easy Virtue, is the featured story today at Every Day Fiction. If you can, click on the link and check it out. I hope you like it; I had fun writing it.

A bottleful of silly

The folks at Every Day Poets have accepted another of my poems, Witches' Brew. It's an homage to Shakespeare, my take on the infamous witches' chant from MacBeth. You remember: Round about the cauldron go; in the poisoned entrails throw.

Oonah, Nicholas and Constance, the EFP editing staff, said they thought Witches' Brew was amusing and playful. I like to think that Will would have approved. As a fillip, I structured the poem so that in print, its outline is that of a stoppered bottle.

I'll post a link when it's published.

At Every Day Poets

If you can, stop in at Every Day Poets. My poem, Murphy's Flaw, is featured today; it tells the tale of Obadiah Murphy, a competitive drinker of gargantuan appetites and capacity. I think it's pretty funny, but then I wrote it.

And I will apologize now to those of you who don't care for meter and rhyme. Stop back another day; the site offers great poetry for every taste.

The Best of Every Day Fiction - Year One

I just got the news that Hair of the Dog was selected as one of the top one hundred stories to appear in Every Day Fiction during its first year of operation.

The anniversary was September first. A print anthology of the stories is in the works and should be available by Christmas.

Some of my favorite EDF authors have stories in the collection, too.

There's Remember from Erin M. Kinch and Aftershocks from Alex Burns. Bill Ward has two stories included; Junkyard Rats in my favorite.

And then we get to the heavy hitters.

There are three tales from Dave MacPherson, a member of the Every Day Fiction Writers' Group; my favorite is Forbidden Planet. Gay Degani also has three stories and hand's down my favorite is Spring Melt.

Kevin Shamel, Sarah Hilary and Oonah V. Joslin (who is so prolific she makes Issac Asimov look a slacker) each are represented in the collection by four stories. And they are all so good, it's impossible to pick just one as favorite.

I don't know how Jordan and Camille did it. Kevin had eight stories appear over the twelve months; if I had been selecting stories for the collection, I would have included all eight.

Anyway, I'll post when the book is available. Watch for it, buy it, enjoy it!

November at Every Day Fiction

Lots more good stuff coming in November at Every Day Fiction.

I am looking forward to reading stories from some of my favorite authors. We will be introduced to Krupper and Jons by Kevin Shamel on November 11; Oonah V. Joslin will work her magic November 14 with a Sleight of Hand; Sarah Hillary presents Me and the Mouser on November 17; Jens Rushing's Ars Draconia will launch on November 20; November 25, Sylvia Spuck Wrigley offers Coffee or Tea and Jason Stout's And the Well Runs Deep will round it out on November 27.

I've got one in there, too. I consider Oh, Woman of Easy Virtue a performance piece; you'll see why when you read it on November 21.

You can check out the entire month's lineup at the Every Day Fiction November Table of Contents.

Number ten

Adam Bradley, editor of Morpheus Tales, a British print publication that features all sorts of speculation fiction and poetry, has accepted my flash fiction, To Each His Niche and Task, for publication in the magazine's July 2009 issue.

It's my tenth fiction acceptance since June 2008; my second in a print publication.

As my friend Sarah would say, I am fairly chuffed about this one. Ten acceptances by the end of the year was the goal I set for myself last January; the story is also one of my favorites. It is the tale of an old man, who may or may not be a super hero, and it explores the narrow line between reality and dangerous fantasy.

Copies of the magazine can be purchased at Morpheus Tales I'll put out a reminder when July arrives.

I swear we just got here

Today is the first anniversary of our arrival in Seattle. (We got here on a Saturday, but it's the date that's important. October 27).

It was a seat-of-the-pants, leap-of-faith move; we showed up with a few thousand dollars in our pockets, everything we owned in an eight-by-ten trailer hitched to the SUV, hardly any income flow and no place to live.

That wasn't how we planned it, of course. Rachael flew to Seattle, from Miami, twice last spring to test and interview for a job with the King County Correction Department. We thought it was a lock; she was a Florida-certified corrections officer with almost four years experience, she passed all their tests with room to spare and got good recommendations from the folks at Monroe County Detention Center.

But September rolled around and our lease was up the end of the month and we still hadn't got the yes from King County. So I said, "Let's drive to Ohio and visit my family for a week or two." And we did.

I'm not sorry we did that; my Dad is eighty-seven and every second that I got to spend with him was golden. But October twenty second came around and we were still in Ohio. We didn't want to hit snow in the mountains, so we decided to head west. We had an apartment set up, and we figured we would just wait it out.

"We can both get temporary jobs,if it comes to that," I said. "Just until the county calls."

We decided to leave Thursday morning, the twenty-fifth. And then the bubble burst. Two letters showed up in the mail Wednesday. One from the apartment complex and one from King County. The apartment had, by accident, been rented and they had nothing else available until December first; even worse, King County said they would not be tendering a job offer.

What could we do? We both had been dreaming about Seattle for months. Thursday morning, we said goodbye, climbed into the SUV and drove toward the sunset. And drove and drove and drove. We didn't want to spend money on motels, so we just pulled over when we were tired.

We drove down out of the Cascades sixty hours later. I cried when we saw Mount Rainier; it felt as if I had come home.

It's been a struggle, but God has blessed us. We found an apartment we both loved that Sunday and moved in on Tuesday. Rachael found work, at a Barnes & Noble, less than a mile from us. Somehow, the money stretched.

Now, Rachael is driving a Metro Transit bus, and loving it. We are in a larger apartment, in the same building we found that Sunday, with a spectacular view of Puget Sound and two restaurants we adore a short walk away. There is even money left over after the bills are paid, so that we can go out for a bit of fun, now and then.

And for me, my fiction is flowing, almost faster than I can write it down, and it is selling. Ten stories since the first of June, five of which have already been in print. I have edited my novel, Lifting Up Veronica, and sent it out to be considered for publication, and my son and I have written a screenplay, Black Rock, working via the internet.

Best of all, Rachael and I have each other; she swears we are halves of the same soul. I think she is right. Life in Seattle is good, it gets better day by day, and I swear we just got here.

Vroom, vroom

Got an e-mail this morning from Terry Martin, Managing Editor at Murky Depths, the British quarterly print anthology. He said I hit his "weak spot" with Nosing with the Four-Stroke Kid, and he offered me a contract for publication.

The story is scifi/horror flash that involves dirt bikes and weird pickup lines; I wrote it and it creeps me out. It's my tenth sale since June (nine pieces of fiction and a poem); not a lot compared to other writers I know, but still a big deal for me.

If it makes it into the first-quarter 2009 issue, it would be a great birthday present.

Copies of the magazine can be purchased at Murky Depths I'll put out a reminder when the issue is out.

Today at Every Day Fiction

Another piece of my short fiction, In His Prime, was published today at Everyday Fiction. It is the fourth in as many months.

It's a story that involves time travel, but that's not what it's really about. The idea came to me a couple of months ago, during a series of posts at one of the EDF forums. Someone wondered if there were any new takes on time travel, and I was goofing, jotting down silly ideas, when one of them grabbed me and whispered, "Look at me!" The result was In His Prime.

I'd loved to know what you think of it; leave a comment here or at EDF, if you would. Anyway, the link below will take you to EDF. There's a spot to leave comments there or to give the story a rating up to five stars.

I hope you like In His Prime. If not, I offer my apologies and the promise that there will be another story along tomorrow to takes its place.

In His Prime at EverydDay Fiction

At Fear and Trembling

Good news today!

Two pieces of my flash fiction, Hostel Intent and Hack, have been accepted for publication at Fear and Trembling, an online horror magazine; no word on publication dates yet.

Hostel Intent is a tongue-in-cheek tale of a haunted college dormitory; it introduces Babbu Singh, assistant hostel proctor, and his boss, the Bhagwan Shatrunjay, a holy warrior and the twenty-fifth Teerthankar of the Jain. I like these two and may visit them again.

There is nothing funny, though, about Hack; it's a nasty cautionary about the hazards of townhouse living.

I'll let you know when I get confirmation of appearance dates.