Tuesday, January 3, 2012

My First Paycheck of 2012

I had planned to publish my writing stats for 2011 today, but my reflections were preempted yesterday (January 2) by an editor who wrote to inform me that she was accepting yet another of my poems for publication (thanks, Susan, you've provided a great start to the new year).  For some reason Susan loves my love poems, but when I told Becky about my acceptance she shrugged it off with a casual, "That's nice, dear."

I quickly pointed out that the editor was also going to pay me.

"How much?" Becky wanted to know.

"Enough that we can have a nice dinner at Bob Evans," I said, "or the check could swing a real humdinger of a meal at Wendy's, complete with Frosties for dessert and maybe a couple gallons of gasoline to get us back home so you won't have to walk on your bunions."

"What kind of poem is this?  Anything I've read?"

I pointed out to Becky that she rarely reads anything I write.  "I wrote it for you some weeks back," I said.  "No, you haven't read this one.  It's not the type of writing that interests you.  It's a love poem.  A real hottie.  A poem full of passion and sweat and swirled silk sheets.  I really had to use my imagination!"

"It's got to be fiction.  After all, what do you know about love?" Becky asked.

"What do I know about love?  Heck, what does a woodpecker know about rotten wood?  What does Paula Dean know about cooking with pounds of butter?  What does Simon Cowel know about talent?" 

"I should read this," she said.  "If it's going to be in print, will it embarrass me?"

"Of course the poem will embarrass you," I said. "That's why I wrote it.  I'll send it to your mother as soon as I get a tear sheet copy."

"How many of these love poems have your written, anyway?"

"Last year?  Dozens just like it!  And I'll write a hundred more in 2012.  How's that for romance?"

New Year's resolutions.  Priceless.  2012 is off to a great start.  My first paycheck of the year.

And thanks again, Susan, for agreeing to pay for the love my wife won't read.  Makes me feel tough.  Like a gigolo.    

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