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My day had begun like a letter received in the mail. At first impression, just as seeing one’s name on the outside, I seduced myself with the narcotic of self-absorption. Waking, tooling off to work, I lifted my mind onto that pedestal of thinking I was the center of life.
It was an absurd notion and one that I had often found annoying in others, yet it didn’t keep me from soaring into that realm where I felt god was that face I saw in the mirror. Mercifully or painfully perhaps, by noon the luster of delusion had evaporated. As with the letter that on the outside sounded so personalized, once opened it turned out to be nothing more than junk mail and I was just another pulse in an ocean of arteries.
That’s, unfortunately, how my day had deteriorated in expectancy and satisfaction. From a walk along the mountain of presumptuous greatness while shaving I descended at work into a ravine of doubt and depression when my imperfections made me stumble into one embarrassing mistake after another.
By the end of the workday, I returned home, feeling emotionally scarred with my aura of self-anointed divinity stripped away. All I craved after the day’s blunders was the refuge of pristine quietness within the walls of my apartment.
Stopping to check the mail, I exchanged eye contact with my next door neighbor, Ms. Watkins. In three years of living next to each other our conversations had seldom gone beyond discussions about the weather. I had tried to stir the pot of sociability on more than one occasion. However, the elderly, reclusive widow had spent too many years alone and was far too defiantly self-reliant to lower her defenses long enough for more than a smile. A simple nod and I moseyed up the stairs with my arm full of the usual postal treasures that came each day.
Once inside, I dropped the mail on the end table next to my easy chair. Flipping the light switch, I hit the button on the remote to turn on the television. A couple of seconds of the evening news and I turned the television off again. There were some days when I could handle hearing all the bad news that happened in the world, but this wasn’t one of them. Instead, I pressed the button to fire up the stereo. Instrumental music from the new age radio station offered a steady, soothing raiment of tones to help distract my battered ego.
Unfortunately, it didn’t cure the flashbacks to all those memories about the episodes of catastrophe that I would have preferred to rewrite. Later, I vowed to myself, in some dream or fantasy bout of self-therapy I would allow my writer’s soul to indulge in recreating this day.
In the meantime, I waded through the mail to see if it, unlike my day at work, offered more than disappointments. Separating the usual junk mail from the important items, the first thing I opened was the letter from my literary agent. I already knew what it had to say. After three years of getting monthly reports, I knew what to expect.
True to my opinion, the report contained exactly what I thought. They had faithfully listed all the publishers they had sent off sample chapters of my novel as part of our contract. Just as in the past, the report had two types of status on the responses from each of the publishers. There were those of publishers that were "reviewing" the submission and others that had "declined.."
Just once, I would have loved to see on the report where a single publisher had requested a copy of the whole manuscript, but after three novels being marketed without a single publishing offer, I had learned to adjust my expectations. I scanned through the copies of the rejection letters my literary agent had included with this report. It always amazed me how the words "doesn’t fit our publishing needs" were such a favorite term to cover everything from "this is a complete piece of garbage" to "who told this guy he could write?" If there is one thing I had come to appreciate it was that the pen might be mightier than the sword, but it is never more powerful than the opinion of an editor when one is an unpublished author!
Setting aside another assault my ego I didn’t need, I opened the letter from my daughter, Kate. She was such a great womnan and I felt truly blessed that she and her husband still thought of me as family despite my divorce. I know it was hard for her to not take sides. Being so close to her mom, she did her best not to let the idea of my wife deciding to run off with some insurance salesman nearly half her age keep her from still thinking of both of us as her parents. It was comforting to know she managed to grasp the idea of unconditional love even if her role models didn’t live up to the concept.
Getting the latest pictures of my two granddaughters was the first good news of the day. I sat them on the end table in an upright position. My little angels would always give me a reason to keep on living. A simple hug from them was worth more than ten publishing offers. At least, it sounded good, although deep down maybe I’d like to have the choice to find out for sure.
I only wish my son, James, had handled the break up of his parents better. We still kept in touch, but I could always sense the distance since my marriage fell apart. His being in the Army certainly provided a good excuse for not writing regularly. Maybe in time, the wounds will heal so we can once again find that plateau of closeness upon which to stroll together.
Hmmm. I wonder what this large envelope contains? It is from my mom. Not being my birthday or a holiday, I can’t imagine what she would have sent. Opening it, I allow the contents to fall out onto my lap. I wonder why she would be sending me a book? A letter I can understand, but she isn’t much for reading.
Picking up the book, I read the title. "The Sorcerer of Nar." Interesting. Looking on the back, I can’t believe my eyes. There is a picture of my cousin, Edgar! This is his book? As far as I can remember, Edgar had never exactly been very good at writing. Reading the synopsis, I cringe. The story is about a young girl that lives on a farm in the Midwest. A twister takes her and her house into the sky and to this mystical land — oh jeez, hasn’t Edgar ever heard of plagiarism? I swear who in the world would publish a rip off from the Wizard of Oz? Oh. Now it makes sense. A subsidy publisher. Impressive.
Opening the book, I read the first sentence, "Once upon a time." It is followed by a series of cliches, grammatical errors and the types of abuses of the English language that would make a high school teacher of freshman English shudder. Well, I suppose I can at least say he did actually WRITE the thing. I guess I won’t worry about it becoming a best seller.
Edgar is that relative in my family that always seems to be the luckiest person in the world. I think every family has at least one individual that fate just deals all the aces. His life is just one long, disgusting tale of luck. After barely finishing high school, his rich and powerful dad used his influence to get the kid into major college. Unlike some of us that sweated over the routine of academia, he had the benefit of daddy’s bankroll to make sure he got the grades whether he attended class of not. Some of us wouldn’t have bragged about such perks, but Edgar delighted in his privilege and never hesitated to let us know each sordid detail of his exploitation of the college system.
I think the ultimate attack on my sense of equity by my cousin came from that doctorate he hung on his wall and made sure everyone that visited his office noticed. Getting some degree paper mill to issue him a phony PHD was not something I would have bragged about. Edgar not only took pride in the thing, but insisted upon calling himself a doctor after he had it framed.
I imagine no one should have been surprised that Edgar would also end up married to the daughter of the wealthiest guy in the state. By now, he is no doubt strutting around with bragging rights that he’s a published author. Oh yeah, I really am looking forward to seeing him at the next family reunion.
I wonder what else my mom has to say? Let’s see, yes mom, I’m sure you are really, really proud of Edgar. Just please don’t pay attention when I throw up! My mother is a wonderful lady, but like my dad, hopelessly naïve about anything unrelated to my dad’s hardware business. I gave up trying to explain things like my own writing to her years ago. As for cousin Edgar’s book, well I know trying to get her to understand the term "subsidy" publisher would be like trying to explain the Theory of Relativity to her pet cat.
I see my sister Donna is doing well. That’s great to hear. Donna is such a sweet gal. It really gave me plenty of heartache to see her go through such terrible times. She has really turned her life around after overcoming that drug addiction. What’s this? She a published poet? Oh great, my sister sent in a poem to one of those contests and it is going to be published in their anthology. I have a whole shelf on my bookcase of anthologies that I paid a small fortune for to have my poem included. It still nags me that I actually bought into those letters they sent out trying to get me to believe that I was the next Shakespeare in order to get me to buy their anthology. How I kept buying the things long after accepting that my poetry never won any contests is a trip to the well of honesty I just don’t care to take. In any event, that’s another territory of reality about the literary world that I’m sure my mother will never understand.
Finishing the rest of the letter and then wading through the other mail, I finally set it aside. That’s enough of that kind of joy for the day. Now to check the internet. Taking my EBook computer on my lap, I wait till it is fired up to click on the internet icon. Soon, I am sailing in cyberspace, awaiting to discover the great pearls of joy it offers. (Either that or taste of another feast of promises like those of politicians that sound great, but have little substance.)
First to check my emails. Great, there are a couple of them from places that I’ve submitted poems. Wonderful, just what I needed, more rejections. Well, maybe next time. Replying to a couple of pen pals, I click on the bookmark to take me to my web page server. Let’s see if the latest literary additions to my web page drew in any new visitors. Checking the counter — three hits is better than none.
Quitting off the internet, I set back and take a deep breath. Time to fly. Time to let the muse out of her cage and inhale the pure, ambrosia of creative fertility. Clicking on the folder containing my current novel, I exhale and allow the burdens of the day to bleed into a closet of forgiveness. Now to let the thoughts elevate me to where the residue of flawed humanness won’t kill the spirit. A place where the mind conquers as long as the spirit is free to drift among the clouds of creativity.
Slowly, methodically and with an ease of confidence, my fingers move along the keys of my computer as if possessed by a different power than my mind. My eyes gaze upon the words coming to life second by second. Time fades from significance. The problems of the day have become a faint echo from a world in which I am a mere traveler. Tonight, the pardon of purpose gives my soul redemption as the penman revives from the maze of daily tribulations.
Then the moment of expenditure comes. It is felt, more than announced. That night’s passage into imagination has ended. I gaze up at the clock. Eleven p.m. Drained, yet calm, weary, yet drunk with the nectar of fulfillment, I save my latest labor of love and shut off the computer. Shuffling off to bed, I’ll sleep the penman’s rest. I enjoy the moment, knowing that tomorrow I will again arise as another simple portrait of obscurity.
Sitting at my desk the next morning and trying to find energy in the caffeine from my second cup of coffee, I’m grateful that silence curbs the tongues of my fellow workers. There are mercifully devoid of comments about yesterday’s failings. Then I see Joe approaching. What could he want this morning? The Vice President of our company doesn’t normally come into my Human Relations Office unless there is a personnel crisis.
He says nothing, but is carrying what looks like some kind of newsletter in his hands. With a smile, he drops it on my desk before leaving. I pick it up. So they decided to go ahead with the monthly newsletter after all. I glance over the front page. No wonder he wanted to show it off. The main article is from him. Reading through the sentences, my writer’s mind naturally can’t ignore the usual literary glitches in his style, nor the lack of eloquence one might expect from an educated mind.
For a moment, the darts of resentment also prick at my mood. Joe and several others know I’m a writer. I have even spent time helping more than one of them to edit correspondence. Yet, when they publish this first issue, I’m not even asked to participate.
I learned my lesson on how to cope with these situations a few years earlier. It happened at church of all places. Good old, Brother Haines. A man regarded as a true pillar of the community and faithful member of our church. The only thing that kept him from being viewed as some kind of angel was the lack of obvious wings.
So there I was, chatting with this highly respected Elder of our church about their plans for a newsletter. Brother Hines wanted to write an uplifting piece about the Christian life for the first issue. How could I refuse to help him in such a worthy task? I never imagined that I would end up practically writing the whole thing. In the end, doing it for the Lord was enough reward. It had to be since Brother Haines decided to claim all the credit for the article. Oh he gave me a nice smile, but when the pastor asked him to come up before the congregation on Sunday to praise him for such an inspirational article, my name never came from his lips.
My mind and my emotional needs both told me it was time to get off memory’s merry-go-round for another day. The rest of the afternoon, I immersed myself in the process of work. Occasionally, I allowed myself the luxury of gazing out of the window and at the life on the streets. That imaginary pen tugging at my heart that compelled me to write; no matter the plaudits, no matter the success was an experience that I could convey in practical terms. By the end of the day, I hadn’t reconciled myself to the enigma of how the spell of ink so possessed my soul, but I knew what did consume me was a flame that I couldn’t quench even if I wanted.
Back in front of my mailbox, I took out the letters, my mind too numb from the sojourn of questioning to think of possibilities. Inside my apartment, I went through my usual routine with the television and lights, grateful for the fact that at least this evening I wasn’t under the weight of depression like yesterday.
Going through the motions of opening the mail, I ignored the one from my literary agent. It couldn’t be my report because I had already received that one. It was probably just some trivial information. They sent those out from time to time, so another one wouldn’t be surprising.
After dinner and a couple drinks I finally got around to opening the envelope. A bolt of lightning shot through my body the moment I read the letter. "Accepted?" I read the sentences over and over in disbelief. Surely I must be dreaming. Somebody was actually offering to publish one of my novels.
The euphoria drowning my soul would never fit any description. My mind was intoxicated with a joy that was like an angelic host had suddenly occupied my heart. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect moment. All my thoughts raged with the pictures of how this event would offset all the injustices of the past. Saying a small prayer of thanks to my Lord, my faced became hopelessly etched with a smile as the tears streamed uncontrollably down my cheeks. I had ascended to the realm of a literary Elysium and never wanted to leave.
Suddenly, while I was reaching for the telephone to share the news, I felt an incredibly sharp pain streak through my left arm. Oh no. I knew what it meant. This was so unfair. Then a second pain exploded in my chest. I got up, my mind racing with panic. I tried to dial the phone for help, but by then my left arm had gone numb. In desperation, I tried to reach the door, but collapsed on the floor. A few seconds of unbearable agony and then darkness swept over my consciousness.
The next thing I remembered was the sound of singing. Not like anything other I had ever heard, but one that I just instinctively knew was coming from angels. Immediately, my eyes beheld the glorious scene of legends and dreams. Heaven, so impossible to describe in human or physical terms, but I was there.
As I stood gazing on the incredible splendor of a city radiant in light more intense than I had ever seen when an angel appeared before me. His smile flushed my soul of a million questions, making them all seem unimportant. Yet, there was the sense of knowing they would be also become answered eventually. In that eternal pause that had no end urgency meant nothing and impatience was a frivolous need.
We floated along the golden stones with the angel’s thoughts caressing my spirit with a love so rich and genuine that I felt a harmony of essence, which my mortal being had never tasted. Still, on our journey, my mind couldn’t help ponder that one "why" that nothing could drain.
Finally, sensing my ache, we stopped in front of an immense alabaster palace. He looked at me, his eyes filled with messages. A book signing? In Heaven? Me? As I floated up the steps toward the entrance my fingertips turning a pure hue of gold. In that one moment, I finally understood what really being published truly meant. And now, in eternity, it would last forever.
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