Obligatory comment about the astonishment and embarrassment for not having posted here in far too long.
I don’t have any great news to report, no happy acceptances of my stories to revel in or wound-licking rejections to lament. I don’t really want to throw out posts in which I pontificate about this or that (or the other thing) since I’m sure my thoughts are no wiser or more discerning than anyone else’s. (And what if they’re far, far less?) I did run a 5K in 13 degrees around a windy stadium parking lot last month, but it was not a shining moment for me (and I got a finisher’s medal, which I think is ridiculous for trotting a mere 3.1 miles). I could put up an adorable photo of my dogs, perhaps (since I don’t have any grandchildren — and I’m not at all bitter or resentful about that. Not at all!).
Even the writing is humdrum. I continue to pick at my Fathers and Sons stories. I have a number of them out to magazines for consideration. (Even after sending them out, I continue to tinker with them.) I’m contemplating sending one of my Finnegans cozy mystery novels (remember those?) to a small publisher for consideration too. Even my finished novel The Sleep of Reason is getting some long-overdue attention from me for possible submission.
I’ve had this idea for a story for a few years that I’ve tried working on lately. I think it was conceived during my Borges-reading period. It circles back on itself in a satisfying way, or it would if I could write the damned thing. But I fear the ambition exceeds the ability with this one. I’m not sure I have the chops to write it in the way I imagine it in my pointed little head. Frustrating.
Similarly, I have another story idea that seems to be born of my Faulkner-reading period. Oblique references. Tortured souls. Tortured sentence structure. Another theme where circles play a part. (What’s up with that?) I guess I’m the guy to write it, but how? How?
Also, is there such a thing as spandex rash? (Apparently so.)
Here’s a picture of my little cabin in the woods: