When I walk along beaches and forested trails, my mind races with new writing projects, with new voices, with bylines, no bylines, or a pseudonym.
I want to start a magazine that features fresh Oregon writing and art. Its editorial slogan: “Mystery over Journalism.” I want to recruit untrained Oregon writers without credentials to submit their work. I want to recruit established Oregon writers who are sick of their voice and subjects and long to try new approaches. They are out there.
In this magazine, I want to publish long lost Oregon writing and give it new life. I want to publish daring stories and memoirs.
I would only publish poems about clearcuts if the poet had actually walked through one. The words dappled and glinted would be prohibited.
I want to publish work by incarcerated men and women. I want to publish messages written in driftwood forts (a regular column).
Novels float in and out of my consciousness. I’ve got ideas for three, one a Western. I am thinking about resurrecting my old teaching novel now that my teaching career is over, obliterated. Writing from a point of obliteration is an interesting perspective, let me assure you.
I recently submitted some work to an Oregon literary review distinguished by its utter lack of grit.
I like writing tales. I just completed a 4000-word tale about a man who transforms into a beaver. It is without any prospects for commercial publishing. I’ve got about 10 solid Oregon tales in the can. I’d like to publish them in print one day.
I miss reading the writing of high school students. Some of their stories and memoirs have never left me.
My writing about Oregon Tavern Age life is shortly coming to an end. It’s time.
A friend recently gave me a typewriter in excellent condition. I think I will begin a novel by typing on this machine. I think I write differently using a typewriter.