Memoirous

I can’t believe I’m complaining. This year has been a roller coaster of acceptances for my short stories and micro nonfiction pieces. Maybe elevator is more the analogy, a sideways one. The average so far has been one acceptance a month. Actually a little more because 1)       I haven’t done the best job of keeping track 2)       Journals/editors have also not taken the time to do due diligence in contacting me about my work This has always been the case. I’ve gotten a lot better about tracking my submissions and entering all rejections, pending, acceptances electronically into the grid system. When I do have an acceptance I try to withdraw the piece immediately from other places. Recently, I discovered examples of both of the above. I got an acceptance and said yes. Then forgot. And it was accepted elsewhere where I said yes, again, and then withdrew it, forgetting totally about the former “yes.” The second time was the fault of the editor. Two journals accepted Little Norwa

Okemos held a Pride event this past weekend. Not sure why it isn’t in June, but nice that things get spread out a bit. Apparently it was the first one. There was a pop-up library which I though was ultra-cool, since libraries are now on the front line in some of these culture wars. Also there was a proud dog contest. The dog that had the most rainbow scarves on, I’m guessing. They were all cute. There was a bubble machine and a DJ emceeing dance tunes. A couple kids were break dancing like crazy. Overall, it was a family event. Waaaaay smaller than anything in Chicago and—of course—no gun shots or shootings! Speaking of Pride: 2 of the folks from Story Studio Novel in a Year class that I participated in in 2021 have LGBT+ YA novels out. James Klise who teaches the class has an interesting totally Chicago book that just released about Chicago in 1930s gangster times. The dialogue and euphemisms are SWELL. There are (so far, not quite done) tense moments in the story, but mostly I’

Once again, I went out on Sunday to try and get more miles in. My main concern is that at the front end of my Rhine River Ride I’ll have to skedaddle the first two days: the stage from Mainz to Koblenz and Koblenz to Cologne. Now in the scheme of things the miles are not outrageous, ahem kilometers, they just sound like a lot. 100 kilometers equals about 62 miles. On some of my tours 62 would be considered a light day, but here I am riding and wanting to see the scenery and the days will be growing shorter—will I have enough time. I’m guessing, yes. Today’s ride was about 57.5 miles from Okemos to St. Johns. I took gravel roads part of the way. The winds were light and on the return favorable. The weather in general has been GREAT! Cooler temps certainly help. On the way back I backtracked to a point and then followed the path I took two weeks ago—Round Lake Rd to Upton to around Lake Lansing and then home. On Round Lake Rd. are several smaller fishing lakes, where I stopped for a

I recently picked up at the library a coffee table-size book, okay, coffee table book, about Georgia O’Keefe called To See Takes Time. The essence of this book ticked all the right boxes for me: *minutia=O’Keefe spent time on small details, looking at and studying common everyday objects to represent in her drawings *she would KEEP COMING BACK to a subject, not so much to perfect it, but to find release from the hold it had over her—just like a memory we keep returning to She did this throughout her artistic career, to the end of her life. Never one and done. She’d revisit a spiral, finding the diddle in nature, in breaking sea waves, in clouds and the wind. She’d attach different color schemes, thickness to the spirals. Play and experimentation. In the repetition came discovery, some new aspect or facet. With flash memoir, a memory sits with us, often interjecting itself unwanted or called upon. It is as if the memory needs to be worked out, tugged and transformed like taffy. Lat

If one were to look by the numbers, I’d be a publishing success. So far in 2023 I’ve had 8 acceptances—about one per month. Except . . . How is success measured? I’m struggling to get representation for my novel manuscript, placement for my short story collection, and then there’s the nonfiction project languishing because I lack a platform. Yet, I continue to write and get smaller pieces accepted. This is not a revenue driver. Mostly the journals taking my work are grateful for free content (their word, not mine)—though I do think they genuinely like the story. Albeit, they do not pay. This week I learned a short story I wrote titled Little Norway was taken by Pensive Journal: A Global Journal of Spirituality & the Arts. Cool! The genesis of the story is thus: When my daughter was getting married and had her reception at a church in Sycamore, IL I remember seeing the church kitchen and thinking—a homeless person could hide out here and always have food and a stealth plac

Yes, I’m on my bicycle nearly EVERY day; I commute to and from work and do all grocery and other errands on the bike. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for steady long miles every day. Or should I say kilometers! Last Sunday I went out for what I thought would be a long ride—at least on the maps, but turned into only 33 miles. I’ll have to be much more ambitious with my planning for something longer. I’ve made improvements to the bike with brands new puncture-resistant tires and a new saddle. I’ve also bought a new pair of padded riding shorts and handlebar bag. Of course, none of this is a substitute for butt in the saddle. I’ve 5 weeks to go!

Last year, right after Thanksgiving, when a long winter loomed, I bought tickets to go overseas. My thoughts were thus: the pandemic is over, well, not over, but no longer scary, and I hadn’t been overseas since 2018, and finally, I’ll be turning 65. Why not travel! What lured me into purchasing was that Iceland Air was opening up a new hub out of Detroit and the tickets were essentially the same as if booking to California. Of course with all the extras such as travel insurance and excess baggage both ways for the bike, the total was about what one would normally pay, maybe not during high season, but …. I’ll leave Sept 26 and fly into Zurich where I’ll meet up with Monica whom I last saw in 2001, who I first met nearly 25 years ago. My friend Johanna will come down from Germany for a girls’ get-together. We had all gone camping in Door County in the late 90s, so a kind of reunion. Next, I’ll go back with Johanna and see the farm, where I was last there in 2001. There have been

I know everyone’s grandchildren are geniuses, smart as a whip—how did this ever get to be a saying?—but my grandson, in particular, is amazing. Sometimes he bursts out the door like a cat on a mission, reacting to movement out in the yard, shouting squirrels! Frantic to catch some wild thing. I worry he’ll fall, miss a step on the cascade of back decks in his hurry to run down a rabbit. I see you! Tonight, released from his bath and newly clean, (I wasn’t supposed to let him get dirty) he suddenly took off like a banshee. Red bird, red bird! He zigzagged from fence post to tree boughs in pursuit of a cardinal. He returned to my arms disappointed. Almost, I soothed him. You were so close.  

A few weeks ago my boss passed away. Now to be honest, Denny of Denny’s Central Park Bicycles had taken on an emeritus role at the shop. He came in 2 days a week, mostly to be available for the men’s Thursday night ride. What he did those 2 days was bring a presence that has been sorely missed, a kind of humanity to the job. We’re selling bikes to people, and those people are workers, students, seniors, children=all needing bikes for fun and recreation and as a mode for travel. He encouraged our service department, our bike builders. All bikes sold from Denny’s had his name on them, a decal on the seat tube down near the crank. Monday, August 7 we’ll have a celebration of life for Denny. One thing I’d like to pay tribute to is something he said that can extend to all areas. Always let the last word be thank you. Sometimes a boss can say something that seems obvious. In fact I’d just gotten done saying thank you to the customer at the till, yet as he was going out the door Denny sho

Chasing Golden Raindrops   After work one evening, I rode my bike home, the long way. The sky, enhanced by Canadian wildfires, Was itself on fire, the color of flames Orange and red, blue blaze. Ashy clouds with singed edges, wafted above, adding to the wooly haze. Air quality alert, my skin tingled— I felt a tightness in my chest as I Hurried along the path, in and out Of the trees, bright patches, then suddenly Submerged in shadow. adding to the eeriness. By the bridge over the marsh, a burst of rain Unexpected, as if dousing the sunset, The filtered light casting each droplet in gold.   In “Light from Canada” James Schuyler muses On the symmetry, the realization that the world, This giant ball, upon which we are all bound together, Living and breathing under one sun, one moon, one sky, standing on the water’s edge, the Atlantic Washes the shores of both Canada and the US, So also the wildfires, the air and light are shared.   In an