I posted some poetry of mine on this blog back in 2017.
However, for the most part, I have been shy about posting my work on here.
I suppose because I am paranoid of people stealing my work (which has nearly all been copyrighted, nonetheless).
Also because, as the maxim goes, if you're good at something, never do it for free.
But mainly because I had (have) hopes that someday, some agent, some publisher, some magazine, some press... some one (!) would see the potential in my fiction and publish my stories in magazines, in anthologies and publish my novels as standalone works.
Then, this past spring, I took a class at the university where I am currently doing my second round of grad school (and getting my second Masters) where I was, essentially, one of about 25 (that's the number of students in the class) student editors for the school's prestigious literary magazine (which, not surprisingly, I had never heard of).
At any rate, I will divulge the name university, the name of the class, the professor or the school's literary magazine.
All I will say is that the professor made a comment near the end of class about how we (the writers in the class, both the students and the professor... a middle-aged poet whose publications, from what I can see, are mostly limited to chapbooks and a handful of journal publications) would most likely never see publication with our writing in major magazines or literary journals.
On the one hand, I was horrified. Here I am a 42-year-old man, an adjunct college professor (for the last 12 years) and a high school English teacher (for the last 15), who's had some publications to speak of (hell, I have my own Amazon page), but nothing nearly on the level I've been expecting or wanting for my career.
On the other hand, I was vaguely reassured. At least here was a man (a poet), who was chair of the MFA program at a major local university who was essentially telling me what I (subconsciously) already know, but was hoping wasn't true.
I was both relieved, but angry. Terrified, yet placated.
Story of my life.
On the one hand, I know that my situation is mostly self-inflicted: I have not been as prolific a writer as I had been in my twenties and early-thirties. I have also not put as much effort into finding and taking advantage of opportunities (to have my work seen and reviewed) as I have in the past.
Well, true and not true.
This is not true of my screenwriting work (as I submit Personal Demons to at least ten festivals and screenwriting competitions each year and always receive accolades and honors).
But this is certainly true for my literary (novels, short stories and poetic) output.
I have not submitted a novel or short story to a magazine or journal in years (probably close to, if not over, a decade, in my estimation).
Though, I must ask: are there any literary magazines or journals left in print (on the shelves of Barnes and Noble)?
I seriously have no idea.
At any rate, and, again, this is to reassure me, but I heard a story on NPR (which I listen to, via my Echo Dot, each morning as my moment of Zen) about how obscure authors, who publish their work as eBooks via Amazon, are getting swindled when people buy their books, read them quickly, then ask for refunds for them. One author they interviewed said (and I'm paraphrasing here, though I am certain that what she said adheres rather closely to this): "If you're not Nora Roberts or Stephen King, you're a starving artist".
Indeed.
And I am one of those authors who has self-published my work on Amazon.
I re-published Humansville on there once my contract with PublishAmerica had run out.
I published my novella The Murderers on there when it was clear no publisher would take such a short novel from a first time author.
And I believe I shall continue to self-publish my work on there. Though it's been so long since I posted anything on there that I doubt I'd be able to navigate the site, as I remember it being not terribly user friendly.
At any rate, in addition to making the usual promises to myself, that I will start sending out my literary work (both short and long) fort consideration, I am also going to pledge to routinely post my work on here.
That way interested people in the field of publication (who may or may not be reading this) can get a taste of my work.
If nothing else, word of mouth might spread.
If nothing else, I figure it cannot hurt.
So, with that I present the first of many stories to come.
This is a story featuring my literary avatar, David Kemp.
He is to me what Bill Lee is to William S. Burroughs and what Nick Adams is to Hemingway.
I maintain that Kemp is exactly like me, but infinitely bolder and smarter.
At any rate, this is a story I wrote some years ago about the monthly pilgrimage I used to make once a month to northern Illinois to visit my grandparents. I found, as I spent more time with them in my years leading to middle age, and they were in their twilight years, that I was (subconsciously) becoming more and more like them each passing year. And I couldn't be happier about this evolutionary discovery.
I present to you a story I wrote (I believe) sometime in 2015.
I have, of course, cleaned up some of language for the benefit of public consumption.
If you would like to read the full, unabridged version, please contact me or leave a comment on this post.
Without further delay, here is the story...
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