The Fighting Writing Fool
In the first round of a tough fight, only a FOOL shouts, “I yam fuh-reaking’ lovin’ dis crap!” usually just before being knocked out by an infinitely more dangerous opponent.
Also, I ain’t Rocky and the world of fiction ain’t sides of beef. Hell, I ain’t even Italian.
Undeterred, I move forward, absorbing jabs and body shots. Relentless, bloody, concussed—I move forward. It feels good to hit, it feels even better to be able to TAKE a hit…
Alls I’m sayin’ HEAH, is… I’ve been writing a lot lately. And, like heavyweight champ, Winslow Homer, I’ve been experimenting boldly.
The result is a small but wiry catalogue of recent work that I am actively pitching or intend to pitch to upper-tier, paying mags. Sure, some of these are gonna get knocked out before the first paragraph is read. It’s likely to be a bit of a bloodbath and “We’ve chosen not to include your story at this time,” will be spray-painted across the subway cars of my submission train more than once.
And that’s okay. I won’t wail every time I get rejected but I will let you know when I land a punch! (I’ll grunt.)
The Mighty Hartski—A 7,400-word rommedriewe, from a snowmobile crash on a frozen field to a shared understanding, bedside in Bethesda. Still brooding over this one, ’cause I’ve been writing it for fifty years.
Tiptoe—Teenage hangovers hurt the most. Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson and a smoky donut shop on Osborne.
Grudge—Worked hard for this one, put some Beta readers through their paces too. Waiting for one more critique before I set this Victoria story free. A crime spree down by the Bay Street Bridge.
Red Lightman—You can’t spell empathy without r-e-s-p-e-c-t. 2,400-words.
“I’m burly and brawny,
not squirrely or scrawny
and if you don’t like me
that’s tough.
I shit thunder and lightning
and everything frightening
and where I come from,
that’s enough.”
Hazel Creek—1,500 words, set in the place where I live, sharp and hard as life can be.
The Three Sisters—The type of story that gets you mad: At me, at the sad protagonist—pure as the wind, at the sister who won’t play along. 3,400 words.
