LO THESE MANY YEARS
So I’ve started posting old fiction of mine on my Patreon. I’ve already been posting works in progress—novel chapters, verse, and the like, and I had been kicking around the idea of putting up this old trunk novel I had from the first time I tried to sell a book. I will probably still do that, but I’ve got an out-of-print short story collection that I love, and even some of my stories that are hosted online have disappeared without my realizing it. That happens in a career as long as mine.
Which brings me to my next point. Next September, I believe, I will have been publishing fiction for 20 years. TWENTY. It boggles my mind. I am one of those people who desperately wanted to be a writer. I wanted it for as long as I can remember—and I can remember back to two years old. I wanted to tell stories before I could talk. My family tells me that in our house in Norfolk Virginia, I would stand on the second-floor landing and just declaim in gibberish for extended periods. I had shit to say.
I sold my first story to an anthology called Damned Nation in 2005. It was called “This is Mars,” and it was originally written for critique at Clarion West when I attended in 2003. The only reason I applied to Clarion West was because Octavia Butler herself told me to and said that if I applied, I’d get in. The prospect terrified me—a lot of things terrified me back then: My past, my present, the darkness of my own mind, my body and my sexuality, the suffering of those important to me. Some of those fears have persisted into my 40s, but most of them have fallen away.
When people ask me how long I’ve been doing this, I’ll often say that I sold my first story in 2005, but I NEVER say, “oh, it’s been nineteen years.” My brain just doesn’t work that way. I’m about to turn 45 at the end of the month, and even before the Pandemic, my sense of time was wonky. Folx my age are always talking about how the 90s seems like they were 10 to 20 years ago, and that’s true for me, as well. Every time someone mentions that if Back to the Future were made now, Marty would travel back to 1994, and while I know that academically, it never penetrates to the core of my understanding. I like to think it’s because I still look relatively young. I still recognize myself in the mirror, except for a little gray, a wrinkle here and there.
I like looking youngish, but I’ve never been one of those people who dreads getting older. My thirties were the first era of my life where I began to feel like things were coming together. That I was getting a handle on how to be me. What I cared to write and think about, what my values are, my own needs and desires. I think another reason why I relish aging is that certain factors in my life make me feel as if I’ve run back the clock, at least physically. I’ve lost about 140 lbs in the past 16 months, and it makes me feel much younger than I did before I experienced the health crisis that spurred me to action.
Today I posted a short story called “…And the Grasses Bend” that appeared in an issue of City Slab maybe 17 or 18 years ago. If it sees publication again, it will be revised to reflect more of what I’ve learned in the past several years. When it comes to fiction writing, I’m a different man than I was in those days.
The photo accompanying this post is more than 20 years old. It’s from a high school party in Tunis Tunisia, and my guess is it’s from 1996 or 1997. When I look at that kid, I remember how frightened he was that the thing he wanted most out of life might never happen for him. Then I think how truly misguided it was for that to be the thing he wanted most out of life! It was a failure of imagination. There’s a lot I’d say to him if I could, but wouldn’t you know it? Time machine is in the shop…. I’m sure he’ll figure himself out eventually.
I’d love to do a new collection sometime. I’ll be posting another story next week, and I already know which one. Hope you dig this little walk down memory lane!