From the Forge…
Guys…I’ve been writing, but I had to take a week off for work. I went out of town for a conference which is normally prime time to catch up on writing and reading in whatever hotel I’m staying. But not this time. As a remote employee, it was exhausting. Having someplace to be at 8am each morning. Being surrounded by people all day. Then attending social functions in the evening. I packed a backpack and B&N bag, but didn’t write or read a damn thing. Just carried around aspirational notebooks, books, and a laptop. I’m back in a routine though and have successfully dragged my protagonist through the most boring part of Act II. The rest is plotted out and I may actually see the start of Act III on the horizon. Things I accomplished since my last post: a respectable word count (if you forget that it’s been a couple weeks since my last post), an edited short story, and a short story submission.
Word Count…
Best Thing I Wrote…
His father sat quiet as Dell, through tears and trembling voice, told the story of getting swindled by the man at the carnival. He hadn’t time to clean up for the dinner Mrs. Haines prepared each evening, so he sat in dusty black work pants and stained white shirt, stroking his mustache as the story unfolded. Upon conclusion, Dell stared down at the wood floor unsure of what to expect. A backhand? His father’s booming voice? Neither arrived, though Dell wished for both when his father rose and approached the dusty trunk in the corner of their home. Dell was never allowed to open it, but he remembered the last time his father did, the outcome of which forced his family to leave their home in Oklahoma for this part of the Midwest. Left behind were more than half his sisters and their families, along with whatever escaped that trunk. Or so he thought. Dell peeked around his father, waiting to see the awful thing escape again as the trunk creaked opened, but instead a leather gun belt with a holstered Schofield rested undisturbed atop a dirty black coat. His father grabbed something from under the coat, slammed the lid, and locked it again.
“Go up yonder. Tell Mrs. Haines we’ll be late for dinner.”
Stamped & Sent…
I submitted The Last Outlaw but I’m not confident. I think it loosely falls into the crime genre, but really it belongs in Western. Know how hard it is to find online lit mags in the Western genre? Near impossible.
The Last Outlaw - Pulp Literature - (in-progress)
Off the Rails - The Atlantic - (in-progress)
Off the Rails - Sewanee Review: Short Fiction Contest - (in-progress)
