Casey's Just Sayin'

stole this from submitmma.com cause I'm tough What do I do when the rejection comes in?  First I send the rejected story back out again (with a few edits) , this time to an online magazine generous enough to publish one of my stories a couple of years ago. Then... THEN... in a show of writer bravery that even has me baffled, I write and submit another story to those who hath rejected the first. Either I'm an absolute glutton for punishment, or I read some of the short-stories they publish, realized I had submitted the completely wrong story for their audience and wrote something I think is perfect for them. I'm probably a glutton for something, anyway. Maybe negative attention. Certainly not punishment. This is a bit exciting, isn't it? I wonder what will happen. I wonder if they'll like my second attempt. I wonder if they'll see my name and say, "What the hell does he think he's doing? We told him we didn't like his work last time." (They didn...

I think we all eventually outgrow our places of peace and respite. Do you agree? From above, the city was beautiful, great spires, towers reaching for the clouds, competing over centuries to be the tallest. The sun glistened off the city’s brightest buildings, their mirrored sides tossing the light back and forth, down, down onto the city streets. The streets looked like a crawling mass of vermin from the highest heights, choked with walkers and runners and bikes and cars, all moving with purpose to their destination with no patience for their fellow citizens. From above it grew, blossomed like a flower, where there was once nothing but prairie wind and wheat stalks. The mass of humanity became its own world, too many millions to count, too many heartbeats to hear. And still they came, drawn to the city by its promise of wealth and opportunity. The city moved day and night, never slowing, never becoming any less active, the sun’s thousands of reflections replaced by a hundred million l...

I recently found an old folder full of stuff I wrote before I could legally drink alcohol. I had a lot of stuff to work through back then. And as I said I could not legally drink alcohol... which means I didn't have a convenient way to deaden my senses and forget. I jest... Anyway, most of these gems are crap; very serious, very brooding, very silly crap. Check this baby out. It's called Nine Years of Light The sands of time have somehow lost their way Nine years have passed now we've had eternal day Some people proclaimed the end of mankind But after all these years they've changed their minds The sun simply stopped in the noonday sky It just sits there as days, months, years go by After the initial panic was through The people have enjoyed their endless blue Solar energy now powers the land And everybody is beautifully tanned The plants grow at twice the normal degree And we don't need electric light to see I'm only eight and have never seen night I've gro...

I'm feeling lopsided. parking on my novel... get it? I have hardly touched The Novel, but have been writing short-stories like crazy. Four submitted now in four weeks to four different online mags. That's a pretty good clip. I intend to continue this until I start getting rejections, which will give me a story that week to send somewhere else. A small respite. this pace is going to make me this old With four I now need a good database to keep track. Maybe it's time to add Numbers to my iPad? It looks like a good enough App. Not amazing, but decent enough for some simple spreadsheet work. let's see... carry the one... Now, back to The Novel. I can finish the first draft of a longer work in no more than three months. I have a handful of words (maybe 4,000) but I'm basically starting a ground zero today. So, three months puts me roughly at the end of September. 1,000 to 1,500 words a day. That's not much in the grand scheme. I checked. I've done this five t...

My father fell early in my life. I used to long for him to still be alive. But he'd be 89 years old now and probably pissed about that. Now I just long for the years from 19 to now. I long for him to have known my children, to have seen me be a father to them, to love them and be proud of me. I hope he is. Here's one from Becoming Dad/22 in Time about a fallen father: He could fly. He was young and weak compared to his parents and his brother, but he was honorable and would soon be stronger than all. He imagined reaching the highest skies of their valley, the great green expanse split by the cool, quick river full of fish and surrounded by the three, white-topped mountains. On the largest of the three mountains grew a tree older than his family’s memory, because it had always been their home. The massive branches of the great, thick, twisted pine went on forever and the nest built near the top of the tree was so big he could get lost going from one end to the other. And n...

If you ever come to Redding, this is a safe bet for great food and atmosphere. My love - sitting across from me in a cozy booth at Market Street Steakhouse last night for our fifteenth anniversary - hands me a small, folded piece of paper and says, "I'm not a poet." She is a poet She's a poet in everything she does As she feels life so deeply around her, as she takes it all in and then returns it to the universe, through her voice, through her smile, through her amazing and fearless capacity for love, she creates poetry She is a poet She wrote four life-long poems Brilliant, unique beats, brave kind loving and strong of mind these four write themselves more and more, which makes her sad She is a poet She writes lines across my heart every day hieroglyphic calligraphic the deepest drum the sweetest string a symphony of words and tune a screaming whispered rune So, anyway, there we were, sitting in this romantic daze, drinking dirty martinis and eating some fabulous foo...

The old man didn't hear his wife when she opened the front door, barely handling the two bags of groceries in her arms as she dipped inside and kicked the door shut, scuttling to the kitchen. She never let the clerks use plastic bags at the store because the straps cut into her hands. He didn't notice her as she put away the soup cans, milk carton, chicken breasts, eggs, rice and the rest. Even though he sat less than five feet from her at the kitchen table, his attention was fully drawn out the small kitchen window. “George!” she finally yelled, which came out as a harsh screech like a child's cough. He didn't turn but grumbled and batted at the back of his head as if a fly were buzzing about. “You're being rude.” “Lady, you need to shut your trap,” he grumbled, still looking out the window. “I saw you when you came in. What do you want me to do, get up and dance?” “Not rude to me you troll. To our new neighbors.” Now he did turn around and screw up his wrinkled ol...

All calmness on the waterfront Not a breeze to urge a ripple The willows have all they could want to sun and drink just a little. The dark, quiet lake whispers soft, a soul singing of its living. It sends its powerful force aloft and rejoices in the giving. But, the eagle knows, as it flies painting the clouds above the lake sees the form with its eagle eyes leaving behind a loathsome wake. In the deepest, of the water dwells something that doesn't belong. Where the lake is heavan, it is hell and it sings the blackest song. It soaks up all that's negative and grows with each passing day so that the lake, as it is, may live until finally comes, the breaking day when the shadow in waters deep comes forth, full of sadness and grief at once, too large for the soul to keep. A beast in need of relief. It rises from the water, black and cold a spree of killing to release its pain. A young demon...eternally old and intent on destroying again a...

I have to give a nod right off to The Writing Show with Paula B. This podcast and its accompanying website have renewed my writing vigor, have brought the songs of creativity to the forefront of my mind and have all but forced me to recommit myself to my poetry, short-stories and novels. Thank you Paula. Your show is fantastic. Any writer is better after listening to your Slush Pile Workshops. I must also tip my hat (lock in the cliches writer boy) to JB Howick and his book "Blow Us Away" , which is filled with insanely good advice about the publishing industry. I found out about Howick through Paula's podcast. "What does this mean?" you ask, rightly so. My commitment to myself: Write and submit a new short-story each week, write a blog post about my progress (you are in that now) each week and make some real progress on my current novel each week. Poetry as it comes. My commitment to you: You'll see a newly posted poem and short-story on my blog each week...

Once upon a time, there was a green-skinned baby, born in pain and joy to a purple-eyed mother and a silver-fisted father. The green-skinned baby lived deep in the darkest parts of the steel forest in the smallest cave of a dead mountain to the south. The first week of his life, the green-skinned baby was happy, cuddling his mother’s bosom and staring into her purple eyes. But their gold was white and it made the silver-fisted father sick and angry. The silver-fisted father only spoke with his silver fist, and he talked loudest of all to the purple-eyed mother. The purple-eyed mother spoke only with her purple eyes, and often the purple tears that flowed down her face. And so time passed and the green-skinned baby became a green-skinned boy. There came a day when the green-skinned boy wanted to venture from the tiny cave in the dead mountain and see what wonders the steel forest might hold. “Leave!” the silver-fisted father said with his silver fist, turning the boy’s skin black and bl...