Magazine Subscriptions

There was a day when I was magazine poor.  I had so many subscriptions coming to the door I couldn't read them all.

But these days tastes and budgets are a bit more discriminating in our household.  My son gets Sports Illustrated (does he take it only for the swimsuit issue?), my wife takes Better Homes & Gardens (although we don't have a better home to show for it, and we sure as heck don't have any gardens) . . . and my daughter takes no magazines.  Zip!  As for me, I recently secured a free subscription to Indianapolis Monthly, I also take The New Yorker, and today I received my first issue of Poetry.  It's been over twenty years since I last subscribed, and the #1 Poetry magazine in America, published out of Chicago, has since seen a change of editors, a large gift from Ruth Lilly (wasn't it an eight-digit gift?), and a slightly new format.

Although I have not read a word of the new mag yet, I did thumb through the copious advertisements and "calls" for manuscripts in the back of the issue and noted that a west coast magazine called Rattle had a full-page ad.  I'm familiar with Rattle.  A nice journal, slick, highly-fashionable, and decidedly great writing in its pages.  The editor there has recently accepted some of my poems and I also received a free subscription to this magazine because I'm one of their authors.

Okay, so Rattle makes four magazines now.

Although I read many more books than magazines, I still get a kick out of walking out to the mailbox every day (120 yards one way!) for my morning exercise.  Opening the mailbox can be like opening a Christmas gift, or a box of chocolates.  You never know what you're gonna get!

But I'm ever more excited when I send my work to these, and other, magazines.  Getting an acceptance (and maybe a paycheck?) is even better than a chocolate buzz.

Dead Poets

I ordered a DVD yesterday that I hope to watch with my kids:  Dead Poets Society. It's a movie I had forgotten about, but one well-worth a rental if one is inclined toward the value of education, friendship, and the deep relationships that can be forged between teacher and student.  I've had many influential teachers in my life, and I'm grateful for them all.

Some months back I also began writing a series of poems about great American writers and poets, and here's one I wrote about Wallace Stevens . . . the man considered by many to be the quintessential poet of the 20th century.

Wallace Stevens

What was it like--to sit behind a desk by day--
Conjuring actuarial formulas as prelude to poetry,
And after hours, waltzing the streets of Hartford
In search of inspiration?

You were the epitome
Of one who worked a beat,
Nightstick twirling at the flick of your wrist,
Most persistent and brave with perspiration.

Now, we look back on your Auroras,
Your Blue Guitar, your Quince, your Key,
And feel transported beyond Connecticut
To Your Final Soliloquy.

Treat This!

No, I don't have hemorrhoids.  Well, maybe I do, but that's beside the point here.  And even if I did have hemorrhoids, who would know?

What I do know is that I had a request yesterday to provide a "treatment" for a book  idea.  Now, in case you don't know what a treatment is, let me explain.  Treatment is a term generally batted around in script-writing and movie-tv-production circles to describe a brief summary, description, or overview of a visual idea.  It's a way for a script writer to describe his/her vision for the project and how it would actually go from script to screen.

But this is the first time I've had anyone use the word "treatment" in book conversation.  So I'm not sure what to do . . . .

I plan to sit down tonight and ponder these deep mysteries.  I'll probably end up writing an "overview" or book jacket description of what I hope to produce.  I'll slap "treatment" on the top of the page, smear a little butter on it, and mail it in.  I like my treatments spicy, so I might add clove.

Overall, though, I've been a healthy writer.  I work out.  Eat well.  Bath twice a week.  My doctor is amazed at how well I'm doing.  I've never had a broken bone.  Never had a surgery.  And I've never been treated for typhoid.  I once stepped on a rusty nail but didn't get lockjaw.  I've been bitten by dogs and did not foam at the mouth.  I've been bitten by snakes, but that's just what lawyers do . . . .

Anyway, I hope my treatment is a winner.  I might even start collecting these in my medicine cabinet.  My varied and sundry treatments would look great next to my licorice prescription and my extra-strength candy corn.

A writer, after all, has to have some vices.

Cajun Compositions

Becky called from New Orleans last night to inform me, not only that she had safely arrived at the teachers' conference, but that she was enjoying some of the best shrimp she'd ever eaten.  Back at the homestead, our fare was scrambled eggs and toast.

My only consolation in receiving these nightly updates will be the fact that, in lieu of having any evening church meetings this week, I will be able to write away for seven consecutive nights without any interruptions.  (When the wife is home she can't keep her hands off me! And if you believe this . . . well, let me just say I'd have a better chance of being grabbed by the Maytag Repairman.)

I'm working hard at present to complete a very massive book (how does nearly 600 double-spaced pages grab ya'?) and first thing this morning my agent wrote (love saying that) to inform me that she was getting close to submitting another book for editorial rounders in New York.  I also had emails from editors at The Louisville Review and a British Methodist periodical inviting me to submit post-query . . . which is a nice, shrimpy touch. 

As for dinner tonight, I'm planning on driving through Taco Bell (if only I could figure out what their primary cuisine is!) and then I'm hitting the keyboard hard for hours on end. 

Call me if you like . . . I'll be up late . . . just like those folks who fix the tacos.

Submitting Down Under

We truly live in a small world (after all).  On Sunday night I submitted one of my science fiction stories to a magazine in Australia.  A few years ago, such a thing would have been unthinkable . . . or would have taken weeks/months to orchestrate via airmail & response.

Some day I hope to get to the land down under:  land of the Sydney Opera House, the Great Barrier Reef, the kangaroo, and that biggest rock in the world thing.  The flight would be a bear, but with my new Kindle, I could manage by reading a few books in route.

Well, but I'm always stoked when I submit a story.  I feel like a proud father, and I always think somebody out there is going to appreciate what I've birthed.  Perhaps the story looks just like me. 

The only problem with foreign magazines is . . . finding one on the newsstand.  Something tells me an Australian magazine would not be as prevalent as O (Oprah's spread).  I might have to order a copy online.

That, or I might have to save enough money for airfare.  A trip down under to buy a magazine.  There are worse reasons to travel.

Love Affair

There are few things in life I despise worse than meetings . . . and I've already had my fill of them this week.  I prefer, rather, to get my kicks through a morning walk in the woods, or lifting weights to the point of exhaustion, or a quiet evening of laughter with friends and family.  And I have also been known to enjoy a quiet morning or long evening of writing, too.

This past week, while I've been preparing for meetings or actually sitting in them, I've also been receiving other quiet reminders of my "real life."  In the past three days I've had two poems accepted for publication, have two new books making the rounds in New York through my agent, and have been silently writing a sermon, a devotion, and VBS "game" plan for next week . . . .

Toward that end, I thought I'd give my readers a respite from their own hum-drum or the drudgery of meetings and offer up this poem.  (Well, I like it anyway.)  Hope it might reflect where some of us actually find our solace, our aims, and our "re-creation."

Natural Selection

On this spring morning I awake
And drape the sunlight across my shoulders
As I drift toward the coffee pot.

The air, it seems, is charged with energy
And I am eager to ignore the tasks
My wife has given me to accomplish.

Soon I will be sleeping in the hammock,
A newspaper for a blanket, and a birdsong
Rocking me in the sweet arms of sloth.

Lost in Translation

For the past week my late night efforts have consisted of attempting to regain some basic knowledge of Syriac.  Why?  I'm wanting to use this old Semitic tongue in a story I'm writing.

But the Syriac is tough going.  It was tough enough when I was sitting in a class with Dr. Orville Wintermute (also studied Aramaic and Talmudic Hebrew with Orville), but now with the passing of years the language has all but passed from my synapses.

I have enough problems with English (I'm still masterin' the Hoosier dialect).  But it has been fun trying to write Syriac again.  I love the alphabet.

As I head back to annual conference today after a short night, I'll be eager to hear other dialects in play.  People from southern Indiana who say, "Ya'll."  Good old boys from Sullivan County (where I grew up) who suck on toadstools and ask, "Where the hell ya' been lately?"  Folks from up north who have just a tinge of Wisconsin drawl who say, "Oh, but it's a hot one today ain't it?"

That's why I like to sit in the back row and observe all of this.  It's fun watching people as they try to figure each other out.