So I Decided to Aim High

No, I haven’t joined the Air Force. I am submitting again, this time to literary legend, “The Atlantic Monthly”, publishing giants such as Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Emily Dickenson and Mark Twain.

Yeah baby! Chalk me up to having a healthy combination of arrogance and stupidity.

Why not, I figure. There are reports where some bloke just shoots into the air and hits a bird. Happens all the time. Sometimes they even aim first. So why not me, only with a manuscript at a literary magazine? Stranger things happen.

Like the time I kissed a girl at the playground swing set, and then she threw up.

Okay, maybe not a paramount example. But it was certainly unexpected. We were teens. I imagined we’d sit there on the swings and grope—that’s what there was to do then, girls and guitars—except she suddenly groaned about not feeling so good and then threw up. Right in the sand. Kind of stained the mood.

Pulling a few strings at Google to research Atlantic’s editor, I found he prefers “clean” cover letters. Anything not about the story. Seems he’s more interested in letting the story speak on its own. Fine enough. The bad news: he’s sold on reading the opening paragraph alone to decide on the piece. So it better be good. Mine grabs (I think), shaping the character with a little humor. But it’s no hammer-to-the-shin-break-your-leg type of thing that curbs you from the Olympics, coercing you to read the rest.

So we’ll see. According to their submission guidelines, I should hear back sometime late September, about two months. Suppose the story gets rejected. Fine. There’s probability of it hitting something on the way back down. Stray bullets. Scientists create laws about these kinds of things.

Typical Sunday Afternoon

Actually, far from it.

I'd called my brother. You know, to catch up, to see how the family was doing. That sort of thing. I figure, it's Sunday, why not? Reach out, touch someone. It's the least I could do! He'd left me a message over a week ago...

So we're talking and I ask him what he'd wanted. He couldn't remember. Glad I didn't call. Anyway, his memory finally sparks. “You interested in writing a screenplay?”

What? Was that a joke? He's joking. Right? “You're joking, right?”

“No.” He sounded serious, and knocks me for six with what he says next. His wife's sister has been “contracted” by an LA studio executive to write a “treatment” (I don't actually know what they're calling it these days). He says the studio also has to submit a suspense/thriller and is tapped for ideas, looking for a writer.

My brother mentions my name and that I'm “kind of” a writer. I'm not really, and have rejection slips to prove it. The studio exec asked him to query my interest anyway. Matt tells me the initial contract offers about, well, ten thousand for a basic plot and “overview”, then if they like it, they'd contract/pay me for a complete script and so on.

I think I was silent for some time, because he just kept saying my name.

All to say, I'm atounded! My brain aches from excitement. Me? A screenplay? Ten thousand?

This may not even materialize, he's contacting the exec later this week. But should it, and they contract me to plot a storyline, I still get the Ten Dimes, no matter if they like or hate the idea. How freakish is that! I love L.A.

We'll see how it turns out. I'm expecting... actually I'm expecting they accept and decline all at once. Hope and fear. Anticipation and anxiety. I can tell a story, and have lots of ideas. But as a screenplay? Well... we'll see. Maybe they just take my idea and run off with it themselves. Regardless, it's worth 10k to try. Can you imagine that? It's nuts. Just crazy! I can't. And if the exec agrees, I'm so in.

Update Ambition

132 words. That’s where I am. 132 words.

If that makes no sense, let me explain. Page down and you’ll find my bit about the Nelson Algren Award, and how, if I wanted to submit one of my short story mss to win a 5 Grand cash prize, I had to edit some 1,600+ words from it. Turned out that was something like 62 words a page. Horrendous editing.

So, I figured I’d update my progress, given the Algren submission deadline has expired.

132 words. That’s it. That’s how much I edited beyond my goal. All without cutting a single scene. Oh yes, 1,827 total words removed. That's 68 words per page, by means of rephrasing, rewording, honing prose, using “bigger” words. It’s amazing how rich the story is now.

Not only did I mark my goal, but exceed it successfully. This is one strong story now. It's thrilling to me. Additionally, I own my writing voice—own it. Over the last months it’s sharpened in such a way I never imagined. Original drafts are strong. I’m more confident. Before, I felt a “disconnect” between my brain and the page; that I wasn’t quite nailing the phrase, or scene, and would have to “fix” it during editing. Now there’s a confidence, a comfort, as if the sentences pouring onto the page are the ones in my brain. Kind of like instant oatmeal. All I do is mix in some $3 word sizzle, and eat up!

A writer couldn’t ask for more...except, maybe, to nationally publish thirteen bestsellers.

So I'm resubmitting next week, almost arrogantly expecting to have it published somewhere and make some $$. I need a delay pedal, new PC monitor, and another 2x12 Boogie cab.

“Pays on acceptance.” Love that phrase.