Chickens and Eggs
The NoSleep podcast; The Shirley Jackson award shortlist; Weird Westerns and more memoir; plus, I'm still not dead!
I’m hitting pause on the A Personal History of Shea Stadium to share news, writing and otherwise. There’s a lot left of the NYC narrative, and it’s all written, so it should resume next week. I hope you are enjoying it; it's been a trip to write (and remember).
First up, I’ve got another story up at the NoSleep podcast. NoSleep is to horror writers what Law and Order used to be for working NYC actors: a steady supply of work.
My story, “Digging a Hole,” is a result of poking the bear with my therapist, where I’m trying to plumb the depths of trauma in both fiction and memoir. This seems to have been a good choice, as I’m selling many of these pieces, and maybe dealing with some unresolved trauma as a bonus. The goal is not therapy, but rather an attempt to cut closer to the bone in my fiction, which can sometimes be overly genteel. If some catharsis sneaks in, I’ll take it. Let’s call this particular story an exercise in seriously fraught family dynamics.
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The wonderful anthology Mooncalves, which I sort of accidently found my way into, is up for a Shirley Jackson award (for Anthology—Edited). The real kudos here go to John Thompson and NO Press, who put the anthology together. There are some heavy hitters here, though: Steve Rasnic Tem, Christi Nogle, Daniel M. Lavery, and Denver Horror Collective’s own Tom Mavroudis. I’m humbled to even be included. My story in Mooncalves, “Edge of the Forest,” is probably the best expression I’ve yet written of my own pet genre, suburban horror.
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I’ve just signed the contract for my first Weird Western (or Western or any kind) story, for DHC’s upcoming anthology, Frontier of Frights. I don’t know who else will be in this one, but I’m excited. My story here is a departure for me: a story with an actual moral. I wrote it directly in the aftermath of the October 7th attack on Israel, sitting at the kitchen table as I listened to the radio. The pedigree shows.
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Finally, I’ve got another chunk of memoir coming out in a literary magazine August. I won’t yet name the publication, but my contribution is a piece called “Mom’s Dead.” You can probably guess the subject matter from the title.
And, remember, I still have “What Time is It?” running over at Split Lip Magazine, though I’m in their archives now.
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In other news, I think my weird eclipse-adjacent neurological problems have bottomed out, meaning things are not getting any worse. Admittedly, they haven’t gotten better, but I no longer feel like I’m sliding toward darkness. It’s a nice feeling, realizing that you probably aren’t dying.
Of course, no one has any idea of what’s going on. I had another MRI last week, imaging my brain, but I don’t think they’ll find anything (if they had, I think I’d know by now). I got a couple good story ideas from the experience, if nothing else.
I also have a new doctor, and a new neurologist, both of whom show a genuine curiosity about the possible causes of my condition. My previous neurologist just wanted to fling everything in the “idiopathic neuropathy” bucket and, you know, have a nice day. Nothing to be done. I prefer doctors who actually search for answers.
That’s all for now. Writing steadily and hopefully well, getting a few stories noticed, and feeling more healthy than I have in some time. The feeling more healthy is a bit of a mental hat trick: if I think I’m genuinely more healthy, I’ll feel more healthy. Fake it ‘til you make it. Is it the chicken or the egg?
More New York City baseball next week.
Peace.