Wednesday, May 10, 2017
The American child has for the most part been spared the actual terrors of war, as has the American adult. In their place we have put an act of imagination more or less indulged. The more nervous of American children, such as myself, have endeavored to make art out of this imagined terror. It is a luxury we can afford and that we somehow hope has a kind of value stacked next to the accounts of real survivors of physically present terror. Such an act of imagination informs my account of the Cuban Missile Crisis and other works.
This is an unusually fertile time for my writing, but I'm increasingly wary of publishing on the blog. At least one journal I've looked into will publish nothing that has appeared online anywhere in any form. So I hold out blogging in hopes of publishing elsewhere while I have little optimism of success. My rate of acceptance in journals was about one a year in my heyday using what methods I knew. Extrapolating, I could expect to publish about a score more poems in my life. Should I just go ahead and publish it all here given the stark probabilities?
It's almost a rhetorical question.