Day 240 of the 365 Days of Blogging

The authour, Dane F. Baylis

LIKE LON CHANEY AT THE TOP OF THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE DAME SCREAMING, "SANCTUARY!"

OR

SOMETIMES GO AWAY DOES MEAN GO AWAY!

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So I'm a curmudgeon. Of course, there are people in my acquaintance who use stronger words than that to describe me. In a world full of egos, attitudes, mouths, and tempers that are rarely connected directly to that gob of gray matter wedged inside the human skull, I have only two words for that approach.

 

When I have had my fill of them - when the weather, machinery possessed by evil spirits, and the attitude d'jour, have hit the limit on my fed-up meter, I retreat here, to my office and keyboard. Even when there's that e-mail that politely thanks me for letting the editors at whatever journal, magazine, publisher, or wherever read and reject a particular piece I thought they might be interested in - I can sit down and know that, no matter how hard anyone tries, no one bats a thousand. Thank god my strike out record isn't perfect either!

 

Whether you work in a room in the back of the house like I do - or at a dining room table, or  coal bin converted into a den in the basement, or a private corner of the attic, your creative space should, above all else, be where you leave behind the mundane crap the world wants to heap on you. This is where the ideas come to be born. Granted, some of them won't survive the birthing process, but even the stillborn are useful. They let you stretch and grunt and do a little creative writing lamaze. The world can hang out in the waiting room until they hear that first full lunged cry!

 

After a day of more whining than I could stand, by people I have little honest feeling for, here I am. Yes, I did get a rejection notice today. Was it that hard to take? Not after I reminded myself that my ass-backwards approach to publication is to start at the top and see how far down the cliff of obscurity I have to fall before something breaks my fall. It just means that a different editor gets a chance to enjoy my gem! In the meantime, that person sitting on the peak I slid down from will see one I just finished - for the sixth time. (I can be like a pitbull with a pork chop.)

 

There are always ideas. There are always stories to develop. There are always truck loads of assholes in the background. The barrier of my studio door insures that, in here, all I have to deal with is the joy of putting words down and sharing them with the rest of the world. I really have no idea how many words remain, but, on the other hand, I'll never run out of jerks.

 

Just my humble opinion.

 

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PERKINS SQUARE, SOUTH BOSTON

 

by

 

Dane F. Baylis

 

 

Three quarter black leather coats, collared shirts, tailored slacks, Cuban heels, fedoras and

slouch caps.    Waves and whistles (friends and ladies), nods to the heavies, KINGS of twelve square blocks.    It’s the hustle, above all else, the moving and shaking, no roadmaps or manifestoes.    It’s brownstones on Broadway, tomorrow. The whole damned town, someday.    Trying to get connected. In the car, and back in thirty, half a C-note richer, or poorer, EVERYBODY owes, EVERYBODY pays.    It’s ALL about the rep, have you got the stones, try me on for size, whispered conversations, I’ll be back, no destination.    The longest journey, covers the shortest distance, pennies pitched and dimes dropped, you EARN the stand-up name.    Swirling figures are moving targets, harder to hit, on the stoop, in the alley.     WHERE  am I?    Graduate, to junkyard hotrods, the emperor’s rusty ride, bats in the trunk, piece under the seat. Saturdays, tell the priest, EVERYTHING   -  and nothing  -  make an offering, buy some conscience.    Move out, come back, and swear off the life. Swear off swearing off, got to find the rhythm.     Singing doo-wop in the drizzle.    We can’t leave now, it all might be coming - or not - but only suckers sleep.   

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Meanwhile...live, love, write.

 

 

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Tomorrow,

Dane F. Baylis

Author.