@EntropicByDesign
I'd like to read your stuff. Would you post it?
Where were you published?
Its mostly long gone, many notebooks and hard drives ago. I was published through a small time publisher my Aunt works with - she writes technical stuff to do with dietary requirements and theory for individuals with special dietary needs. People in comatose states, after VERY severe injuries, the extremely old, etc. Its.. I'm sure its fascinating to the right people. She runs a large and very respected dietary consulting firm and her opinion is apparently a big deal. Go figure. But she works with a small publisher that in turn works with a larger publisher overseas in the United Kingdom called Accent Press. Its outside there usual line, and I have no idea how she finagled this relationship, but I cheated and used her connections to get some of my crap in front of people.
The main short story was called "An Evening of Theater with the Dead".. just a short little thing about a stage play adaptation of an episode of "I Love Lucy" being put on by the dead, for the dead, hosted in the land of the living. The various guests and actors were a handful of the famous dead throughout human history. I had to change the part about Christoper Reeves playing the part of a couch to perfection by standing perfectly still and not moving a muscle. Cough. It was semi comedic, semi serious and only semi good. A writer's worst sin is thinking he's actually clever and overthinking his work. Write what fits, dont twist and alter and add to make it 'smart' or 'deep'. If you're smart and deep it'll come through in your work on its own.
It was actually a hidden tribute to my grandfather, who had died many years prior. All my copies including the original have been gone a long time. Ive never held on to anything Ive written. I write and once its done, its done.
Poetry was all in a bastardized turn-of-the-century style. An example from memory, and its a hazy memory, so this isnt exact and its missing a verse or two.
As autumn bled the trees to bone,
and winter yet reclined
I saw an angel dancing,
listless in the skies.
Her wingspan shut the night and sky
behind its shadowed spread,
as all the world of love and pain,
went 'round inside my head.
Though for all her grace and glory
there was sadness in her eyes
and bruises running long and deep
on skin so fair and fine.
So I gave my heart to wear
there on her gilded sleeve
to beat for her when needs would be,
but never once to bleed.
I'll ask around and see if anyone has any copies of my shit laying around and *if* i can find any i'll snap some pics of the pages.
