Yesterday I happened to be standing in my writing closet (more on this in later blogs) when I looked up and noticed a curious little stack of periodicals. Digging down under the dust, I pulled out a generous handful of journals that happened to be the source of my first published work.
Here they were . . .literary journals I'd forgotten about. But there was my name in the masthead/table of contents. And there they were, dozens of poems I'd written during my high school years and early college days. Tripe, all of it. But it was honest tripe.
What astounds me even more, however, is the fact that I got paid to write this stuff. Yes, there were editors who wrote to me back then:
Love to see more of your work, Mr. Outcalt!
Send us more jewels like this!
Good God, where have you been all my life?
Oh, to be young again and to be able to write poems. Poems that flowed from the gut. Poems about love and God and broccoli and sour cream and existentialist doubts and crop circles. But poetry is tough stuff, and I admire those who can do it. I gave up poetry for sex when I got married, and believe me, my wife will tell you I made the right decision.
Now I'm old and crabby, and the only letters I get from editors are those that read:
Is this the best you can do?
I'm not paying for this junk any longer!
And you call yourself a writer?
Believe me, the stuff we write when we are seventeen and eighteen (and our lives are uncluttered) may be the most honest words we'll ever put on paper.
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