“I never blame failure – there are too many complicated situations in life – but I am absolutely merciless toward lack of effort.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Since I got up the guts to start submitting my writing back in 2014, I’ve had a total of 38 pieces published. These range from shorter poems to a nearly 7,000 word story. my best year was 2016, with eight pieces published, and so far my worst year is this year – only one piece published, a flash fiction piece at a whopping 245 words. Yegads.

Is publishing everything? Absolutely not, but it is if you’re trying to get someone else to give a damn about your work. I’ve filled these pages with posts trying to figure out my lulls, successes, and (mostly) failures – enough of that. Quite long ago I started to post updates on what I’d been working on and reading, intending to do so on a regular basis in order to keep myself honest and clear-sighted with how I’m actually using my time. Perhaps one reason I stopped doing so is because I hated the truth – for a long time I was only rewriting old pieces that had failed before, but mostly I wasn’t writing at all. It was as if the well was dry and done with, time to brick it up and forget it ever existed.

Only thing is, I could never get myself to do that. Over and over again the desire was there, even if the ideas weren’t. Okay, I figured, so then I’ll just keep rewriting old ones, making them better. Most of those did get published, so I guess I succeeded. I’ve written two full novels in my life, and I undertook the daunting process of entirely rewriting both of them. Since then they’ve sat, with only a cursory attempt to get them to agents. Now, finally, I’m almost ready to start submitting them again.

Additionally, I have a new short story – entirely new – currently on its second draft and feeling pretty good about it. I’ve established a routine to submit unpublished works at least twice a month when lit mags open up. Once this current story is finished, it’s back to the world of agents – sending off my work and hoping for the best, while trying to come up with the next thing.

I am far from youthful anymore, but have since again found inspiration in youth – that of the present, and of my own, and depictions of youth in classic works. Right now I don’t wish to analyze any of this to death – as I do most things – but simply to run with it and see where I end up. I seem to remember a version of myself who used to do just that. Sometimes it was disastrous, but was never boring, and always made for good stories.

Let us burn up our former selves, and stay warm by the flames.