Fragments From Floyd

"You can't become a credible writer without credits. You can't get published unless you're already a writer with credits." It's a well-known conundrum, no more fun to experience the misery with company than without. More than once in the two years in which I've sort of pretended to see myself-- at least one facet of myself-- as a writer, I've said t'heck with the whole lot of literary magazines. From the ones from whom I've not received rejections, I've heard nothing. No acknowledgement of what has become of my little tales after they left here SASE'd six, eight or more months ago. There for a while I eagerly awaited the mailman, expecting to hear something from somebody. Anybody. Even the ones that don't give you the time of day but put your name somewhere on their lonely pages. Lately, I've stopped waiting, and I've stopped caring.

So, when I brought the mail in on Saturday, it was a surprise to see a response of some kind in an envelope whose return address I recognized. But maybe less of a surprise in this instance, because I'd sent one piece last fall to Greenprints and received a nice hand-written critique from the editor. "I like this; nice phrase here; good humor..." But the bottom line: parts were overwritten and the ending was weak. Thanks, but no thanks. This was a rejection not totally discouraging though, all things considered, and I greatly appreciated knowing that my literary child had at least arrived safely at its intended destination.

And so I sent a second piece to GreenPrints a few months later, and again, received a nice hand-written explanation for why it didn't match the magazines' intended focus. "Rewrite it and I'll be glad to take a look at it" said Pat Stone, owner and editor of the the magazine that prints "the best personal garden writing, old and new."

But this rejection was one of those finely-tuned, pithy pieces that I thought I had pared down to the bare bones. And while he didn't ask that I reduce it but change its focus in significant ways, I discounted the idea of taking the time to reinvent it. I noodled with it some, got nowhere, and forgot about it. A few days later, it pops up again. And for reasons I can't explain, within an hour it morphed into a much stronger piece than the original. Lesson learned. I sent it back to Pat about a month ago. And when I opened-- as I supposed-- his latest rejection, a check fluttered out of the envelope! Hot Danged Skippy!

If you check out the magazine, I think you'll agree, Fragments is right at home among stories like this one at GreenPrints. While the money is not enough for that new lens I'm saving for, it's a start. Yes sir, I'm bringing home the bacon now, buckeroos (and buckerettes.) Except that every silver lining has its cloud: I just got a call from Leo, our auto repair man. The replacement truck door is in. The one involved in the incident where the deer standing on the side of 221 said to his companions as he saw my truck approaching:

"Watch this. I saw it on a Road Runner cartoon. I think I can do it." I'd need two GreenPrints checks to break even. Sigh.