Funny Bone

Last week, while rummaging through a pile of books, I happened upon a copy of The Rockford Review, a northern Chicago literary magazine that made its appointed rounds back in the 1990s.  I had forgotten about this little humor magazine and the fact that the Review had published one of my satirical pieces on the Carl Sagan phenomenon back in the summer of 1991 (a full twenty years ago). 

A quick review of the author section revealed that, at the time of the publication, I had no book credits, and my author bio consisted of various magazine credits including a newspaper column I used to write for the Noblesville Ledger entitled, "That's Life."  Funny how I had forgotten these tidbits.

Although I had not yet had a book accepted for publication, I recall that I was writing ferociously when I lived in Noblesville.  I also recall that many of these years were B.C. (Before Children) and that I worked horribly long hours pastorally.  For a time I had a dedicated office in the parsonage, but after children, my office was relegated to a makeshift desk near the television set and I wrote books--entire books, mind you--while also wrestling screaming children on my lap and fighting off the piercing emanations of the TV set, which was just inches away from my computer (back then, a Tandy 1000 with duel 4 1/2 inch floppies and a green, monochrome monitor).

I know I wrote at least a dozen books during my six years in Noblesville, none of which were published, but I certainly learned how to navigate the writing process with a myopic concentration, closing off all distractions and sounds.  At one point, I do remember mailing a gigantic stack of short stories to The New Yorker in one fell swoop (at least thirty of them) and then receiving, one afternoon, a surprise phone call from a fiction editor at the TNY offices kindly suggesting that I "send one at a time."  "We can't read this many stories," she said, "but I admire your ability to whip them out.  Just send us your very best work and let's see where that takes us."

I was thirty years old at the time and, looking back, I don't remember much that happened that fall other than the birth of my daughter (what a blessing!).  I'm sure I don't remember I was married, but I guess I was. My wife and I must have coupled at least once during those years.  (I have no idea how my son got here!)

The rest, I suppose, I have simply forgotten.  That's what writing a dozen unpublished books in six years will do a human brain.  (This is your brain . . . this is your brain on writing!)

Funny . . . haven't thought about these things in years.