BRIEF HISTORY OF A WRITER STILL FUMBLING WITH WORDS
The history. Some extremely regrettable actions. They can’t be undone. Some redeeming ones. How to regard those? I think of them as blessings maybe deserved, maybe not. I’ve no way of telling.
Spouse. Almost twenty five years together now. Many adventures and misadventures shared. Her children and mine, melding still. Uncommon indwelling and meaning between us.
More than 20 years of writing and editing for smaller newspapers. I felt linked to what happened locally, my beat, for enterprise, spot news, investigation. Turned down a few fine opportunities: working in London for Reuters; per diem news writing for CBS-TV in New York City. Others. Circumstances and my own perfidy got in the way.
About six years of filmmaking, me, camera, putting together a few documentary efforts, some experimental so-called anarchistic pieces, one particularly embarrassing collaboration. A little bit of recognition. Couldn’t keep it up; started too late; too costly to produce.
Now writing again for a couple of years - some short stories published in “literary magazines.” Self-published a trilogy then removed it, hunting traces of its existence so they could be obliterated. Self-published a Ph.D. dissertation and a small collection of short stories and poems, a few published in other venues. Reworking a novel. Submitted a novelette for young readers and another short story.
To me, my writing seems pedestrian, but I like to weave the stories. I’m not methodical, sometimes not careful, shirk from trying to compose anything longer a couple of paragraphs, hate marketing, rarely read to others in settings available, regard this latter part of my creative life as part of a semi-reclusiveness I prefer.I won’t say it doesn’t matter if my work isn’t accepted or regarded well. It does. But there’s so much available, so many opportunities to find fine works to embrace; it’s easy to be missed in the crowd.