long ago, far away

I began writing, yes I did, all the way back to a column in the high school newspaper. On to a college paper, stumbling into high school sports stringing on both coasts. Off and on Blogs – this one more than four years now. Even writing for work: grant proposal stuff, treatment and service plans, Board reports. Every once in a while I call myself “A Writer” and actually really believe it. Then, unfinished stories continue to languish in their dust-gathering, and I go about wondering, again. “Don’t real writers write all the time?”

Evidence for the cheerier take are the 10 books I’ve self-published on Amazon. They are real, there’s some here in San Diego and piles in boxes in a Portland garage. I’ve lost money on all but the first one, and money stopped being the point a while ago. They say the joy is in the journey.

I’ve had two seriously-incomplete books sitting around nearly forever, including a real detective mystery and a collection of unconnected stories which I think includes maybe my best writing. Both forever call my name – “I call your name, but you’re not there.” Me and Mama Cass. Here and there I try to trick myself into finding the writerly imperative to finish them.

Which brings me to a couple of hours ago and a brand-new-today story, all 514 words of it, which I shuttled through the website “Submittable” and offered up for consideration to the flash-fiction on-line magazine “Every Day Fiction.” As a story, well, with no plot or story line, it felt more like psychosis on public display. Kind of cool. I’ll be happy to copy and paste off a copy to anyone who requests. The point is, the beginning of the week I vowed to write and submit a story by the end of the 27th, and – yowser – did it. Anything to assist the cause.