I’ve been fortunate enough to have a handful of things published. Some journalism, essays, poetry, and fiction. Even got some paychecks. But, I admit, sending stuff out is hard.
As an unknown author, you are a pebble on the beach—so very many people want to be writers. Editors are getting mountains of submissions. The odds of them publishing your piece, finding it to be one of the very few they choose as “good enough” to see print and write you a check for? Not good odds. Not at all.
You have to believe in what you’re doing. You have to love it most of the time. You have to be ready for rejection.
I say this to myself, as my submissions lately have been few and far between.
Voices of encouragement are hard to come by. Sometimes one must encourage oneself.
Self: “Submit, I tell you! Just do it!”
(I will not admit to having slapped myself just then. I won’t do it.)
Write on, then, fellow writers. Write your best. Then send it out into the ether and get to work on your next brilliant piece while you’re waiting to hear about the fate of the other.
Do it.
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This I Believe has published my submission.
http://thisibelieve.org/essay/72967/
This site publishes essays about personal belief. Many of the essays published are by famous people, many are not. The “not famous” people (such as myself) are published only with first names in the byline.
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Hey Dad,
Eighty-nine years. That’s a good, long time.
Enough time for one World War to end and another to begin (you may remember that second one—you fought in it). Thank God, that war ended too. Other wars followed. Walls went up and came down. Sixteen Presidents came and went. Human history wrote itself in the perilous, haphazard way it seems to; demonstrating again and again that the good and the bad we’re capable of is a curious and maddening puzzle reason has yet to resolve.
During those eighty-nine years, Dad, you lived your life. You’re not done with it yet, by any means, but let’s agree that whatever mid-life crises you may have endured have been in the rearview mirror long enough now that you probably couldn’t see them even with your best pair of cheaters on. (That’s me teasing you about being old, I think I’m allowed at this point.)
This stage in life surely lends itself to looking back and considering the past, asking yourself questions about all that has lead you to this moment. The kinds of questions we would all ask.
Has it been mostly good? Have I been more happy than sad? Can I call myself successful? What has my life meant to me and to others?
There are some things that only you can see and feel. There are some questions only you can answer. But the question of what your life has meant to others—well, let me take a stab at that one.
Dad—you’ve been (and are) a good man. Not a perfect man but a good man. You may think that’s a small thing. But I promise you it isn’t. You may think no one noticed. I guarantee you—they did.
All those years ago your goodness dazzled a pretty girl from Missouri. She fell for your wit and your charm, your smile and your laugh. She fell in love with your eyes as they sparkled with love for her and just a hint of benign mischief.
Your goodness rubbed off on your sons. How do you think they became diplomats? Why do you think they laugh so readily and prefer to be peace-bringers? Where did you think they got their charm and wit and sense of humor?
Growing up our friends always said, “Man, you’re dad is great.” Guess what? They still say it. (They were right then and they’re right now.)
I know there have been many, many in the church community you have touched over the years, in big and small ways. If they lined up to testify it’d take some serious time.
I remember salesmen that you treated like sons and I could see in their faces how highly they regarded you.
To family and friends, co-workers and clients, neighbors, folks you brushed up against at the store or the bank, even total strangers…time after time you generously shared with them your good nature and your kindness. So very many people have had their day brightened by a simple smile or silly joke you’ve offered…your supply seems endless.
I remember right after your heart surgery—I was visiting you in the hospital, trying not to cry because you looked so pale and fragile. And there you were—telling jokes from under the oxygen mask trying to cheer me up. That’s so you, Dad!
As a soldier, a salesman, a son, a brother, a husband, a father, and a citizen of the world, you’ve been (and are) a good and gentle spirit with a kind and warm heart. Countless times you’ve enlivened your surroundings with that lovely, contagious laughter of yours. A laugh I will remember and recall with deep affection for as long as I live. I smiled just now, hearing it in my mind.
Never doubt Dad—not for a single second—that who you are means a whole lot to a whole lot of people. You have loved well and are loved by many for that reason.
A good man who loved well. That’s a pretty good legacy, I’d say. I’m not sure I know of a better one.
Thanks, Dad, for all you are and all you mean to all who love you.
Oh yeah—and Happy Birthday!
Love,
Jim
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I pretty much discovered the online magazine The Phantom Tollbooth by accident one night in 2005 while Googling a piece of King’s X trivia (something about “terminate Jay Phebus,” if I recall correctly).
I’ve been writing for them ever since.
It’s been a great learning experience and opportunity.
This online zine is targeting a Christian audience, so you may note a sprinkling of spiritual references in some of these articles. Fear not. There is no preaching. It’s mostly about the music.
Here are links to what I consider to be my best pieces to date:
Concert Review, King’s X, Martyr’s, 2005
Feature Article, King’s X, Sept 2009
Concert Review, Mute Math, Park West, 2006
Concert Review, Joe Satriani, House of Blues, 2006
Interview/Feature, Lucy Kaplansky, Nov. 2009
Concert Review. Rosie Thomas, Cornerstone 2006
Concert Review, Michael McDermott, Clearwater 2007
Finally, here’s a comprehensive list of ALL my PT postings:
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“The greatest part of a writer’s time is spent in reading, in order to write; a man will turn over half a library to make one book.”
–Samuel Johnson
Whether it’s literary short stories from one of The O. Henry Prize Stories collections or Cormac McCarthy’s dark but “consistently brilliant” (NY Times) book The Road, it’s important to be reminded what to strive for as a writer who wants to be published and read: a good story, well told.
–Jim
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“Men are idolaters and want something to look at and kiss and hug, or throw themselves down before; they always did, they always will; and if you don’t make it out of wood, you must make it out of words.”
–Oliver Wendell Holmes
Interesting statement. Is it the writer’s job to mold words into ideas people can make into mantras for living purposeful lives? Or should writers merely observe and report, leaving conclusions to interpretation? People assign meaning to art. Whether the assigned meaning has anything to do with the artists’ intentions is another question entirely. Does intention really matter? Or is it the art that matters?
–Jim
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“The author should be in his work like God is in the universe–present everywhere and visible nowhere.”
–Gustave Flaubert
An intriguing view. One ignored, I suspect, by the authors of many fine works. Art is a personal platform. It can be preached from. Is that always bad?
–Jim
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“Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head and then you’re a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff’s worth, without pity, and destroy most of it.”
–Colette
Very hard to do but critical. Writers often suffer from one of two extreme views: 1. Everything I write is brilliant or 2. Everything I write is crap. Assume the second, then edit your crap into brilliance.
–Jim
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“Another piece of advice: when you proofread cross out as many adjectives and adverbs as you can. You have so many modifiers that the reader has trouble understanding and gets worn out. It is comprehensible when I write: ‘The man sat on the grass,’ because it is clear and does not detain one’s attention. On the other hand, it is difficult to figure out and hard on the brain if I write: ‘The tall, narrow-chested man of medium height and with a red beard sat down on the green grass that had already been trampled down by the pedestrians, sat down silently, looking around timidly and fearfully.’ The brain can’t grasp all that at once, and art must be grasped at once, instantaneously. And then one other thing; you are lyrical by nature. The timber of your soul is soft. If you were a composer you would avoid writing marches.”
–Anton Checkhov
This, too, is a hard lesson to learn. We want to “pretty up” our paragraphs. There are fresh, powerful, artful ways to do that. Too many adjectives and adverbs are usually not the answer.
Working on it.
–Jim
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