a development, an irony, an epiphany, another development

a development: Every so often one of my writings gains a history of bad luck—ill timing to a journal’s mailbox or editor’s desk—misplaced by the post office—or sent off with too limited stamps—or the magazine folds unexpectedly. Currently the curse seems to linger over a particular short story / pseudo travelogue I began in the late Nineties. The text exists as a reinvention of a trip I took to London, UK on my thirty-third birthday, a solo journey to find myself, find an aspect of my identity. Today, I still find a strength in the phrasing—a confidence emerging in the persona’s decisions and his creative word play.

For years it sat unfinished, half complete. In 2010, with it finally completed to my satisfaction, the submission process began—some physical mailings, some electronic. Favorable comments returned, but no acceptances. This month in fact it came close to being published, twice. And last week, one of my favorite online magazines, Fraglit, wrote to tell me they considered using it—but the journal stopped production indefinitely. The past issues appear to remain archived, so I encourage others to visit and read the material. The editor Olivia Dresher notes that they may return in the future—so I will be paying close attention to the site for future developments.

Once again, I must hit the directories, seeking a plausible fit. The major difficulty I realize is the fact the story is based on a fictionalized-personal history—making placement difficult. Do I consider it more pseudo-memoir or personal essay embellished with fictitious details or full short story or fragmented confessional or even an extended flash fiction?
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an irony: writer Roxanne Gay today posted material on the same subject regarding separation of author and persona. She writes (the italics are my emphasis):

Today, I read on campus to a small audience. A few of my colleagues were in attendance and I read the first chapter of my novel. It was stressful. I still get so anxious when I read. I also prefer to read in front of strangers. Because of my writing style, people assume every story I write is autobiographical. There’s definitely truth in everything I write but not everything I write is true. I talked about this a bit over at HTMLGIANT. For example. my novel’s protagonist is married, has a son, is a lawyer. She is entirely made up. And yet, there is a whole lot of me in her. Some of my experiences are hers while some of her experiences are her own. It’s all quite blurry but my novel is not a memoir. I don’t think I will ever write a memoir that I will choose to publish. That much exposure feels too dangerous.

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an epiphany: Random song on the radio, random lyrics, yet the random nature moved me into a direction finally after weeks of silence for “Dream Poem to a Former Lover”—My focus was centered on a reality, not on the surreality of the trauma of death. If discussing an irrational death, sometimes the emotional expressionism carries more impact than a matter-of-fact naturalism.
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another development: one of my strongest poems remains unpublished—“ Fragments: East St. Louis 1996.” Over the last ten years the stanzas have altered slightly, word choices tightened, imagery restructured—but overall the piece remains the same theme and explorations of abandonment and self identity. This is not to imply on a steady monthly basis I have sent the work out into the world. A span of at least five years it stayed encased in the computer files, motionless. Yet Wednesday I received a half-rejection, half-acceptance letter from a magazine I respect highly—on the whole they may use it after the April theme is produced. Usually I do not have luck with themed journals. All of my poems seem to fit in any random titled collection as far as I am concerned—in this instance the editor tells me how much she appreciated the tones and sense of loneliness embedded in the lines. She wrote:

Staff and I have spent a lot of time considering your long poem, and we're all admirers of your tone, craft, and message… There's a profound sadness that floats about your expressions and images of depression that seem to us even more appropriate for (the)August (issue)

—which of course generated a strong sense of pride and reassurance, even if in the end it is not accepted. Yes, I know. I shouldn’t have to rely on these comments from editors—but I do rely on these comments from editors. These words act as a sense of recognition. Acknowledgement.