They give you two choices to submit your short story to their contest. You can have it postmarked by Friday. Or you can personally hand-deliver it the following Monday. In my youth, which I date from 61 years on down, I would hand deliver my manuscripts - both short story and poetry - 35 minutes away from home, down congested highways, parking a mile away, then walking in the whipping winds to Professor Nestler's second-floor office at Montgomery County Community College. Today I am far more organized and get it postmarked on time.
The whole purpose of yesterday was to finish the short story and mail it in. I'd read over the last draft that Marcy had so kindly okayed the night before, but you know what, Dear Reader? I thought it STUNK. My main thought was that of EMBARRASSMENT, that I had allowed Marcy, who has such discerning taste, to read something so imperfect.
A short story has a logic of its own. I'm making this up as I go along, but it's all true. I realized this when I re-read it Friday morning, the day it was due. The story did not conform to the logic I was setting up for the reader. With one of the hundreds of pens I have all over my house, I carefully marked up my ms. showing myself where my thinking was incorrect. This is what editors do for you but now I had to remove myself from my product and pretend I was reading it for the first time.
When I read my final draft some five hours later, I was pleased. As always, I kneeled down on my living room rug, the only way I can properly read my works, and re-read every word. My eye glided smoothly over the manuscript. There was only one place I was not happy with but it wasn't bad enuf to re-do.
While working on the revisions, I had two other writers in the back of my mind - Alice Adams, whom I had just discovered at the Fox Chase Branch of the Philadelphia Library (we always remember where we meet our great loves) - and my own Virginia Woolf, who, truthfully, I can't remember where I discovered To The Lighthouse. My daughter Sarah says I remind her of Mrs. Dalloway in the book Mrs. Dalloway.
Now I'll tell you a little secret. I knew all along that my short story had the ring of Mrs. Dalloway to it, published in 1925. And at one point in my short story, I thought of putting in the name Clarissa, which was Mrs. Dalloway's first name, and then remembered that's Woolf's character, not mine. My character has a much less attractive first name than Clarissa.
I'm quite pleased with my short story. At the moment I can't remember its name - oh, yes, it just came back to me. Titles are very important. I'd won a first prize from the college many years ago and had my short story published in a now-defunct magazine. Geez, what was the title. Can't remember. It was about a meth addict.
I submitted another terrific short story to them either last year or the year before which didn't even place! My wonderful late friend Bobby edited it for me. You have no idea how I miss that man. He developed Parkinson's disease at age 70 and decided he didn't want to wait around for it to ruin his life so he walked in front of a truck. He's buried in a nearby Jewish cemetery. I LOVED THAT MAN! My story was about the early years of Jesus Christ.
So! Vhere vere we before I rudely interrupted myself. Ah!
Having driven my story yesterday to the nearest post office, the Huntingdon Valley, I came back home and answered my emails, put the phone back on the hook and answered a few calls.
I must be busy every minute of the day or else I'm not happy. So far, the only way I can write is when I have something else to do. I'm not like John Updike or John Cheever. I hope you watched their repeat video on the NY Times of when they appeared on the Dick Cavett Show. When Cheever was praising Updike, watch for the expression on Updike's face. He looks like a blushing bride.
My boyfriend Scott is utterly respectful of my need for privacy. He knew I'd be working all day long so he didn't come over until about 5 pm, well after I'd mailed my ms.
So, did you mail out your short story? he asked.
Short story? What are you talkin about? I said.
Truth is I did NOT feel like talking about it at all. We went for our first nature walk in months! Down to the closest Pennypack Nature path around here, a five-minute drive. A bubbling creek was to our left. And no birds sang! We were amazed by this. I'll have to call them up to ask why. They're not there on Saturdays or else I'd do it now.
Then Scott began driving somewhere. I didn't know where and I didn't ask. It's so much fun to be surprised.
You don't mind if I go to Barnes and Nobel? he asked. I wanna pick up a couple of magazines.
Oh, that would be terrific, I said.
He quickly found a couple of model RR mags while I searched the stacks. They had NO Alice Adams books. I wanted to look at one of her short stories and see how Without George compared. I did find Mrs. Dalloway and re-read the first page and the entire forward by Maureen Howard. I do own the book, but I can't remember where I last left it. I teach myself how to write by reading great writers.
When we left B&N, the new gigantic jewelry store Jared (named after the owner's nephew) was yawning far in front of us.
Scott, would you mind if we stopped in Jared's? I love jewelry stores. I told him my friend Pam's dad worked there.
The interior was magnificent. The lighting was just spectacular. If you're ever depressed, Dear Reader, stop into this store. They'll give you a tour, no questions asked. Dave and Jessica waited on us. I tried on a ruby and diamond ring, telling them, truthfully, I can't stand wearing rings, that I took off my wedding band after a month cuz it made my body list leeward.
We spent many happy moments there before going home to dinner.
This is how I celebrate getting my short story in on time. Just strolling around with the one you love and savoring the fruits of the world. In our case: nature - books - rings from Tanzania - and the joy of riding in a car.
