So, we're here and it's now ...

Well, 2012 is off to a good start, with a real sense of opportunity and change blowing a hopeful breeze into the dark corners of a Canadian winter existence.  Something particularly exciting may be just around the corner, but more on that later if it pans out...

In any event, after a long hiatus from submitting and getting writing published, I got back on the horse over the last 12 + months, and finally succeeded in having another story published by Scrivener in its Summer 2011 issue.  There are still plenty of submissions out there (fingers crossed), but this represents the most recent work I've had published.  For those who are interested, however, in the business of writing and getting short fiction and poetry published, I would recommend joining Places for Writers on Facebook.  They offer a good community of writers to engage with, as well as a constantly refreshed listing of publications and contests looking for submissions representing a wide array of subjects, interests and genres.  A must for any aspiring writer on-line!

A belated return to my publishing history ...

In the winter of 1993-94, I had another piece of prose poetry published in Scrivener, a quarterly published at McGill University.  Titled, "green thread", this (along with "guilt") is one of my favorite pieces of writing.  Sadly, that was 18 years ago ...
Here it is:

green thread

my buttons are falling off, clattering, rattling here and there hollow on the linoleum.

i am of the belief that these falling buttons, like the hairs that show up in my hand when i rub my head, are a sign. everything is a sign: no effect without a cause; a place for everything and everything in its place. (breed one part righteous Scottish Protestantism with one part Highland insanity; add German and English to taste, and a taste for liquor -- a place for everything.)

i sew my buttons back on, when i can find them, with green thread so that they'll grow on the garments i wear, so that they'll grow on me, giving me fasteners for the things that are misplaced, slip through my fingers, for the moments that got away leaving no scars where they penetrated; here i could hook on a childhood (a satchel of elusive memories), there i'd place a missing trinket, my glasses, keys, wallet; i'd get them all back, gather them up like the displaced buttons and fasten them to my body with needle and thread, and time would never hurt me again.