I was always curious about him, this writer with whom Dad shared many adventures, most involving trout. Now I have realized a fun dream and put a piece of Dad’s history out there. Rosebud is a journal I bought copies of over the years, enjoying stories, wishing something of my crafting might end up within its pages.

Thanks, Dad, for letting that happen.

Thanks, Richard Brautigan, wherever you are, for giving Dad fishing lessons once upon a time.

Dad’s friend Richard moved to Eugene during high school. They met in 1951 playing church basketball. Richard went to First Baptist, Dad to First Christian. The night of their initial match-up Dad’s team groaned ahead of time, thinking their winning streak over. First B’s team boasted twins who each stood 6’ 3”, and Richard topped them at 6’ 4”.

Dad’s first thought when he saw Richard was that Ichabod Crane had come to life with sandy hair. Guarding Richard under the basket was easy. All Dad had to do was give him a hip, and Richard lost his balance. First Christian won the game.

The whole story starts on pg. 76 of Rosebud #51.

Actually – April Fool – I found another rejection. So I hung my head in sorrow and cried myself to sleep.

Actually – April Fool again – I (honest to goodness) took the no-thank-you in stride.

This morning I thought it might be interesting to go over the word-crafting activity I’ve participated in since roughly last March. Compared to other years, this one’s been slight on writing time but perhaps heavier than some when it comes to learning, thinking, reading, and interacting with the publishing world.

I could illustrate my creative life, perhaps, by quoting a character named Leonard on the (new to me) sitcom The Big Bang Theory. Leonard is some type of physicist or something, so no correlation to me in terms of education, etc., but when a woman he was dating asked what he’d done at work that day, he replied, “I thought a lot.” The woman just looked at him, so he added, “And I wrote down some stuff.” That sums up most of my literary days.

And yet there are a few statistics I could tally. So I did. First I counted the number of essays I’ve had in circulation (sent out to journals, magazines, or anthologies) since March 2010, and the total is seven.

From that pool, I’ve received acceptances for four, and those have since been published – three online and one in a print anthology. That feels good. I hadn’t even remembered there were more than two that saw daylight (if Internet journals count, which I think they do).

Maybe that’s hard to believe. But the daily process can be like getting a new haircut. You’re thankful for nice reactions you receive, but the words of anyone who makes a joke or even a suggestion for improvement will stay with you like dandruff on a dark sweater. And those who say nothing about it at all, well, those non-commenters might possibly drive you to find a different hair stylist. (I’m speaking for myself, but maybe also for other sensitives out there.)

When it came to the past year’s rejections, my tally highlighted more interesting things. Like I mentioned regarding last night, I can now sometimes take a rejection philosophically and promptly head to dreamland afterward. Truly. It happens. But the emotional roller coaster can still really corkscrew me some days. There can follow weeks when trying to rest looks more like chasing wandering goats than counting sheep. So it helps to see how many potentially wild rides I’ve taken and survived.

My tally shows thirty rejections in 12-ish months. Twenty-four of them were standard. In other words, they send the same notice to most authors, and there is nothing in it regarding the particular piece in question. A few are by editors you just know are trying to give us sensitives an easier time. Editors have much to wade through and to do, and they rarely get money for it, same as us wannabe writers. Sometimes they are wishing for a kind comment or two from somewhere. So here’s mine. Thanks for reading my work and letting me know, kindly, you couldn’t use it.

My tally also reveals six of my rejections as the personal, encouraging, we’d-like-to-see-more-from-you kind. This was rather surprising, but nice. Three different essays have caused somebody to comment, “We were impressed,” “I can see this being published,” or “We dig your style.”

This especially helps, because two of those three essays are still out there. One of them got rejected again last night, with a very brief, standard message.

But I know a few somebodies liked it. And that helps me sleep pretty well.

I also know this talk is free and open to everyone. Gutenberg’s address: 1883 University St., Eugene, Oregon. That’s on the corner of 19th and University, up the hill from the classic McArthur Court, which has been abandoned for a larger, spiffier arena with pine trees painted on the basketball court. Which Tim and I saw last Friday night when we attended the Harlem Globetrotters game. I sported a wet sock from a puddle that accosted me while crossing the U of O campus, which has no bearing whatsoever on Lisa’s book reading and talk next Tuesday, except to say I plan to show up at this event with both feet dry.

Life has been wood on the fire (sore neck),
dishes in the dishwasher (bend, straighten, groan),
husband on the sofa (getting his own soup from a can; I don’t cook much).

There was Christmas.
Son almost well, husband with a fever, daughter almost sick.
There was New Year’s. A party.
We left at 10:00.
Shiverish, tired, yet happy still.

There is laundry to catch up on,
back to work — make a lunch beforehand,
remember what got left for 2011.

I jotted ideas during the holidays. Then I started something new, almost random, and I like it. Enough to return after adding to the fire, after dozing, and before leaving for work.

The year is waning, and the music is deep. Well, we don’t have snow, so I’m glad there can be depth of sound, rather than some of the kitsch I’ve sampled in search of the holiday.

For years my husband has sought tunes to listen to while he drives. Because the green world around here grows tall between cities, Tim carries out broadcast engineering on long, four-wheel-drive enhanced trips to transmitter sites and home again. He likes the New Age genre. I especially love it come December.

While I listen, I’m still filling my little Moleskine. The writing notebook’s almost ready to put to bed with the year. So I’m back with more random bits from a writer’s mind.

You’ll judge between kitsch and depth better than I:

6/7: Observe and consider. There’s elegance in the unmown grass.

6/14: If I forget to turn decorated t-shirts inside out before washing, will the laundry police come after me?

6/19: The startling sound behind me was a flapping of wings. A crow’s. Only an old crow. But a friend in the stillness wrapped in cloud on Mary’s Peak.

6/24: I like summer coming in under the door.

7/3: I’ve learned that the life of an engineer’s pants is not a pretty one.

7/12: Some writers write directly, and not explicitly. I think I write indirectly and explicitly.

7/15: Clever email spam: Cassanova’s Caplets

7/18: (daughter) Victoria: Our country’s present leaders were all raised on Sesame Street. That explains a few things.
Me: Wow, you’re right. A bit scary.

8/2: My first manuscript mailed to The Sun. Wow, that is far, far away.

8/13: Victoria: I am a multi-syllabic kind of person.

8/26: Our neighbor Harry: The difference between being involved and being committed is like ham and eggs. The chicken’s involved; the pig is committed.

9/12: Christian writing and teaching is overwhelmingly top-down, and the educated world wants, mostly, bottoms up.

9/14: There are books and books and books to be written close to home.

9/27: When a “broadminded” person reacts against an established group/ideal by calling it anti-(whatever), that implies “you are negative,” which implies “I am positive,” which implies “I am right and you are wrong.”

10/3: As opposed to listening in on many forms of conversation, I prefer the noise of a book.

10/6: It’s okay to just keep working in the wasteland of a first draft.

10/8: “It is much better to be tied to one wonderful thing than to allow a mere catalogue of wonderful things deprive you of the capacity to wonder.” ~G.K. Chesterton, “Lamp-posts,” from The Pedestrian, No. 1.

10/25: Man, it’s a wild, hot-flashy life.

10/31: “Why do I get the impression my generation will be known for its witty comebacks?” ~Victoria, after viewing photos by Sarah Culver of the Sanity/Fear rally in Washington D.C. (view here; they’re cool)

11/7: Sometimes when I keep quiet about something, I’m withholding permission from myself to grieve.

11/11: Yesterday I drove Highway 99 home inside an IMax sky.

11/21: Christians are going to be on the losing side of culture wars. Whenever they’re not, things get very bizarre.

11/22: The sacred. Hm. So close to the scared.

11/29: Out the window, nearsighted, at 4:30 a.m. — a little, winking planet or the moon.

There are many anthologies out there, lots with great short stories but Saying Goodbye is about much more. It’s about memories… There are heart felt memories, humourous memories, some extremely personal memories. Some really made me smile. Others brought tears to my eyes. I’m not sure if this was because of the writing or because often the content was so real.

After her review and interview, she was inspired to post her own goodbye story, about the death of her father-in-law.

Which got me thinking. I’d like to do a book giveaway contest. I also want to encourage anyone inspired to tell a life story. Mel Sherratt hints in her interview that another call for “goodbye” submissions is upcoming in 2011 at Dream of Things.

What would you write for a story of saying goobye? Would your topic be very personal, like mine about my marriage? Would it be humorous? Dramatic? Completely original?

Let me know, in the comments, via email, phone, etc., what your idea might look like. No need to craft the whole piece, but a taste of it would be fine, or simply a sentence or two describing your tale. If more than one brave soul responds by December 20, I’ll draw names for a winner (I can autograph the copy, if you want — boy, that feels weird to say).

I gain a lot from them, throughout the year, as I revel in second-hand experiences of knitting, crafting, cooking, shopping, raising chickens, and so on. Since it’s now, and they’re there, I’d like to tip my hat to these hardy bloggers.

Last November–a year ago today, in fact–I went to a job interview for Managing Editor at Midwifery Today, a national magazine based here in Eugene. The week leading up to that Monday had been a blur. I’d noticed the job on Craigslist and then revved into high gear, polishing up a resume and soliciting referrals. It was the first outside-the-home employment to catch my interest in a long while.

Writing and I were a little burnt out with each other.

I parked near the MT office, a converted mobile home, and tripped up the front steps 15 minutes early. I was ushered past friendly faces in the front office to a sagging, comfy sofa near a tiny kitchen. A roly-poly chocolate lab greeted and kept me company whilst I tried to sit up straight and keep my wits. I had no chance at this position, no great experience, just that editorship for a pregnancy center newsletter way back when. But I had to try, because I could. I’d been invited. The doggy kept reassuring me it was fine.

I loved every moment, speaking with Jan, the publisher, and another staff person. They liked me. Sunshine came in the window and made me sweat. I imagined heading into the back office to learn their routine, and I posited my schedule with 20 hours here a week, plus however many more it would take me at home. It was way over my head. It was all a rush.

On the way out the door, after the receptionist said goodbye, I answered, “Good night.” Good grief. It was only noon.

Jan called me the day before Thanksgiving to let me know she’d hired someone else. She had loved me, she said, but the next five people in the door carried far more experience in their briefcases.

Though a year ago I was disappointed, today I’m grateful I didn’t get the job. In February a nonprofit group hired me for 10 hours or so a week, and my training and actual experience have been invaluable so far. Best, there are times available in which to think. Some days I can even write while waiting for clients. There’s every-morning essaying at home before work or whatever’s on my schedule. And I can share our car, for now, with my daughter, until she buys her own.

Writing and I are easier bedfellows today, though we still have our off-moments. While I’ve worked on this blog post, a rejection has arrived. I guess I often try for acceptance above my head, and someone with more to offer is often preferred. Probably again it’s nothing personal.

I guess we do those things we were made to, and we pursue the stuff that, just maybe, we were destined for. Even burnt out or disappointed, giving it a good go bestows fun and that love, that rush. For this I do my best to keep giving thanks.

I want to shift my mind. To return to that lovely field of option, where I felt in control. But no matter how often I page up and page down, there is no esc-ing my quandaries.

I admit, I’ve thought it more than I should: F1 through F15. Why’s my brain such a Num Lock? Why can’t I see clear?

Finally I have a day at home. Creative time in abundance. I never thought it would seem like the end.

This isn’t me, this quitter. Somehow an alternative has to appear; it will enter from the far right corner, beneath the plus and the minus of memory and lessons learned. It will. I know it. All will be well at last.

Oh, @#&*%^!!

At least once I hit delete no one will see this. I am fully in  command.

My dentist started with that comment at my recent appointment. She has been trying to fix a problem with a small, old filling and a crack, and she has been determined to help me not have to pay for a crown if we can avoid it. She’s a very capable, in-demand dentist, and she always shakes my hand. Her attitude feels good. The tooth feels…pretty okay, for now.

It’s nice having a dentist who is a tooth nerd. This is someone who examines gums not just to pay the bills, or because she invested money in her education. Those reasons likely apply, as well. But this is a dedicated mouth person.

In a similar sense, I’m trying to be dedicated to essays. Learning the way of them. Engaged with the writings of others, making it my mission to breathe, eat, and snooze with my own. As someone has said, no one will ever care about my compositions as much as I do myself.

I can more fully care, now, with my kids grown (though not exactly yet gone). This is my season of permission to be constantly thinking, not about how rooms should be decorated or what fashions to own (not that I ever did, anyway), but about how to strengthen tone, modify structure, clarify language.

It’s fun, actually. Sort of like love. Even when it is difficult, discouraging. Even when rain dampeningly chills the house corners and nobody’s emails tell me I’m accepted.

I would like to meet those somebodies who consider the work to which I’m becoming more committed. I would like to think I’d shake their hands and say that I’ve been thinking about their guidelines, their recent issues. That I’m dedicating my own capable, nerdy mind to fixing something they will find intriguing enough to want to sink their teeth into.