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So glad you have signed up to receive the For Random Learning Comes Newsletter! This is the one hundred and thirteenth edition.
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Sorry if I ramble a bit, today. My new work is at the bottom.
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The political season rambles on, in all its silliness. In doing so, it has provided a lot of grist for my mill.
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The Democratic National Convention took place last week, and it was the biggest feel-good Democratic pep rally I have seen, since Obama ran.
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Before this year, I can't say it has ever occurred to me to watch the convention. Usually it's a big yawn. You get the important parts of it from the news the next day.
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But last week, I found that watching long stretches of the convention acted more as catharsis than sleep aide. Although some of those speeches went pretty long --looking at you, Bill Clinton!
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It was nice, at last, to feel a glimmer of hope. Especially, for those of us who, before Biden stepped aside, were in doom and gloom mode (see my dark poem Gray Galleons, written during that period.)
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At that point, all around seemed to predict an inevitable Trump win, an eventuality that would cause great cognitive dissonance in the brains of people like me. To believe something to be impossible, and yet, find out that it has happened, is not a great place to be.
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I know, I know. Don't count your chickens. The jury is still out.
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The point is, I managed to produce three pieces in the last fourteen days. As the unofficial, uncredentialed, self-appointed rhyming historian of this ridiculous political period, I say: You're welcome. I live to serve. Isn't it great, to know you can come to me, to remember how you felt in the worst moments?:)
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The first piece (chronologically, in reverse order) was inspired by the realization that people are going to have to make their minds up, about these two. So exactly, what about them should we pay attention to?
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I provided a helpful primer in the poem The Measure of a Man. I wrote it using gendered language. But I meant for it to be interpreted in a more traditional, universal way. That is, this poem's logic can be applied to women, too.
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It reads, to me, like a very long ABBA sonnet. The last stanza uses the AABB rhyme scheme, trading the traditional couplet for a double whammy quartet, which delivers the moral of the story.
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The second piece below is called Weird. It's a blogpost or essay, inspired by the phrase that VP nominee Tim Walz has used to describe the Trump camp. It catalogues the different ways we use the weapon of "weirdness" to point out differences, perceived as flaws, in political opponents, those with disabilities, and lone gunmen.
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The third post below has a harsh name, but I hope you will forgive me, for my rare foray into PG-rated material. Bitch is a poem meant as a response to Trump's bizarre and outdated remark, that Kamala Harris only got the nomination because she is a pretty woman. I try to make the point, which I had thought was more or less universally acknowledged: that no woman should have to take that kind of #@#@$@ in this day and age.
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Sorry to be "all politics, all the time" at the moment. I hope those of you who disagree with my politics will forgive me, for forcing them upon you. This will all be over, one way or another, in a few months.
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My novel is coming along slowly, but I just hit the halfway mark--at least, as far as my aspirations to finish a 100,000-word novel go. Currently at 50,064 words, the novel has grown by about 2000, over the last two weeks.
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The writerly outings I have been attending include Second Sundays readings at Happy Medium Books, which is a great gathering of local writing talent. I'm looking forward to attending JaxbyJax at the downtown public library in November, and the Florida Writers Association Convention in Orlando in October. I have not yet been informed, of any speaking role--i.e., chance to read my story aloud-- in JaxbyJax. Fingers crossed.
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I also have some poems drifting, unclaimed, out in the ether--a chapbook, which I should finally hear about in September, a few poems, at ACPapa in St Augustine, for their annual anthology, and a recent short story submission to a local anthology. This anthology is still accepting submissions, until September 25 and it is called Alternate Routes #2.
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The waits can be grueling in this game, but patience, I hear, is a virtue.
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Like many writers, I go back and forth, on the idea of self-publishing (beyond the website.) I am especially discouraged on the poetry chapbook contest front, where hefty fees are imposed, for the privilege of joining an endless cattle-call of creators, all with their hands out, all hoping to receive the prize of publication. Kudos to those who win, but must one win a prize in a game, in order to play, at all?
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I also am not blind to the fact, that my own style of poetics--more traditional in form, more tongue-in-cheek, more topical and therefore perhaps, transient, and more rhymed, than most of the poetry lauded in our era--is not everybody's cup of tea.
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On the other hand, I hate going to events empty-handed. All I have to offer at present is a business card with my site URL and QR code on it. Pretty slim pickin's.
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The pros and cons of self-publishing seem evenly stacked, to me. Sure, trying to go the traditional route is a lot of hard work and a lot of rejection. But there is an awful lot of piddly work involved in doing it yourself,too. And a fair amount of expense, with no guarantee of recompense. Even more expense, if you hire out any portion of it to the many services glad-handing and stalking authors and poets on the internet.
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Add to those obstacles, the difficulties of trying to achieve visibility in our electronic age. It is hard enough to be seen as a website in a sea of websites. Imagine doing all that work and going to all that expense to self-publish, and then getting nothing for it. Many do.
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I must have missed the memo. I was under the mistaken impression that writing was a service, that a well-written novel or poem or essay was a product, for which the creator could rightfully expect compensation. Silly me.
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I am quite certain my mother, a prolific, gifted and yet seldom-published poet in her own right, would not have approved of me self-publishing or vanity publishing, as they once called it. That tone of disapproval continues to ring in my ear, no matter how popular and commonplace self-publishing becomes.
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All such ruminations are of course, premature. See earlier paragraph, about not counting chickens. It's weird, how all you can think of, when you are supposed to be writing, is what will happen to your work, after you're done. Slowly, slowly. I have to tell myself. One step at a time. All will come clear in the end.
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Still, I'd love to hear how fellow writers have wrestled with and come to some resolution, on these matters of deciding how to bring your work into the world.
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All has been quiet in the tropics, knock on wood. We're not necessarily done with hurricane season, till sometime in November, though. But I hope the worst of the summer heat is behind us. I know my worst electric bill last year arrived in this time of year, covering late August to mid-September, when temperatures in the 90's still lingered.
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Stay cool and enjoy the last of summer. School has already started here. The beginning of the school year always seems like a fresh start, to me, a time to try new things.
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If you know of anyone else who might be interested in receiving this newsletter, please forward it and send them to my website, linked in the logo above, to sign up!
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Stay safe if you're in the path of any hurricanes or other rotten summer weather. Till next time!
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So Close and Yet So Far
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This essay discusses the Semiquincentennial celebration and compares it with Fourths of Years gone by.
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Drawing
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A poem on redistricting, the drawing of new districts to serve the ruling party's political purposes, with the blessing of the Supreme Court and with enthusiasm unchecked by either the people's will nor the State's Constitutional provisions.
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Attempt
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A poem describing the swirling emotions on and offline provoked by the attempted assassination of President Trump at the dinner for the press. Caveat: I do not doubt the attempt on his life was real. P.S. The photo is an attempt at beauty.
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Approaching May 1st, 2026, Anniversary of The Great Fire, Jacksonville, FL
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A poem about a very dry spring in Florida which calls to mind the terrible fire which consumed Jacksonville early in the 20th century.
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Smiles
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This poem analyzes the loss of reputation of the US in the eyes of its closest allies, and the attitude it projects, about that loss.
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