Memoirous

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...

What I remember most about my Scanlandia bike ride from earlier this summer: Crossing the mountains Crossing fjords on ferries Impossibly high bridges Moose meat stroganoff Long, slanty light The sun Wishing for the sun to come out Wishing for the sun to go down Winding down on switchbacks, thinking       this could be the last day of my life Mostly what I remember is the fear             a knife-edge, precipice-inducing fear             the awful feeling you get                         when lost                         when there are no maps         ...

check out a new story out at Gival Press here's just the beginning Check out my new story posted at Gival Press here's the beginning-- Ordinary Time I. One day He was waiting by the dock. Several thoughts competed for his attention. The heavy clouds and thick shadows passing over the water. The ferry slogging through the choppy waves. The fact that spring was late and Easter was early this year. He felt impatient waiting. It was on its way, out there on the gray horizon. Arne-Dag smiled. Always the pastor, always thinking in metaphors. It was hard to escape. The hull of the ferry yawned before him as the ramp lowered and car engines started up. A stream of cars exited. Slowly the queue he was in moved forward toward the ship’s cavity. Again it felt like death or another biblical allusion: Jonah in the belly of the whale. He was trying to alight on just the right illustration for next week’s Palm Sunday sermon. Christ triumphant entering the city. He li...