It’s autumn Up North. Trees are dressed in their festive finery. The air is crisp and cold, and the leaves are beginning to let go, spinning downward to Earth. Back to the soil, the sand, the water. Back to where they came from.
I love this time of year. I love the color, the light, the musty smell of decay, the clear and silent sound of the wind in the trees. I want to be outside, but I also want to be inside, at my computer, inspired by the beauty on the other side of my window.
As for writing, I seem to be doing more “teaching of writing” than actually writing my own stories and essays. But I do have some great students, and they and their work make for pleasant days.
I can, however, report that I’ve had several stories I wrote a while ago recently accepted for publication: one at Peauxdunque Review, another at Helen Literary Magazine, one at Spelk Fiction, another at Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and a story at MoonPark Review. I love the name “Peauxdunque” (even though I can’t begin to pronounce it) and “Spelk,” and I love that I’ll soon have work in journals named after a woman and a tree, and I love that I’ll also have work in a journal with the word “moon” in its title. These things make me very happy.
I humbly thank these lit journals for taking my stories. I could also tell you how many rejections I’ve received this past month — an alarming number, the ratio of acceptances-to-rejections great enough it ought to discourage me from ever writing or sending out work ever again.
But I’m stubborn. And I can be a fool. And when you combine those two qualities you get someone who keeps writing and sending out stories into the world — like those leaves that finally let go of the limb, fluttering in the wind, sometimes getting caught in a great gasp before landing on the ground only to be trampled, raked, bagged, and burned.
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