November 28: "The Swimming Lesson," How to Survive, Publication

Mary Oliver learns how to survive . . . 

The Swimming Lesson

by:  Mary Oliver

Feeling the icy kick, the endless waves

Reaching around my life, I moved my arms

And coughed, and in the end saw land.

Somebody, I suppose,

Remembering the medieval maxim,

Had tossed me in,

Had wanted me to learn to swim,

Not knowing that none of us, who ever came back

From that long lonely fall and frenzied rising,

Ever learned anything at all

About swimming, but only

How to put off, one by one,

Dreams and pity, love and grace,--

How to survive in any place.

Oliver is not really talking about learning how to swim in this poem.  She's talking about learning how to survive--the fall and frenzied rising from depth to air.  Some days, you drown.  Other days, you float.

Today was kind of a drowning day for me.  Lots of busy work to get done.  Teaching.  A radio interview.  Dealing with Christmas trees.  And a concert by a wonderful musician friend.  In between all of that, emails and phone calls and grading and writing.  It felt as though I was kicking as hard as I could, trying to get my head above water.

And then this happened:  I picked up a copy of Marquette Monthly, a monthly publication with a pretty wide distribution across the region.  A couple months ago, the editor published one of my poems.  This month, he accepted one of my Christmas essays for December.  I opened up the issue, and there it was on page 25--my essay titled "The Christmas Eve Wrinkle."

Now, unless you're a writer, you probably won't really comprehend the thrill of seeing something you've written in print.  There's really nothing like it.  It's akin to getting a puppy for Christmas or your son washing his dirty dishes.  A moment of grace and joy.

I know that not a whole lot of people are going to read it.  And, of those people, most won't give two shits about it.

However, Saint Marty is still riding the waves of that grace, seeing land close by.  

December 19: Her Trick Was Working, Publication, Shakespearean Fairy Tale

Charlotte was delighted with the way her trick was working.  She sat without moving a muscle, and listened to the conversation of the people.  When a small fly blundered into the web, just beyond the word "pig," Charlotte dropped quickly down, rolled the fly up, and carried it out of the way.

Charlotte is a writer.  Her "SOME PIG" web is her first publication, and she enjoys the stir it causes on the Zuckerman farm.  Those two little words start the whole process of Wilbur's salvation.  By the time the book ends, Charlotte has saved her friend's life through her writing.  There aren't too many authors who have saved lives, literally, with their publications.

Today, I received word that an essay I wrote a while ago titled "A Bipolar Christmas" was just published online today in bioStories Magazine.  I have been expecting this news for a couple of weeks.  It's a fantastic magazine, and I'm honored to be included as a contributor.  If you want to read the essay, click on the link below:

bioStories Magazine

So, I am celebrating a little this evening.  Like Charlotte, I'm sort of sitting here, in my web, watching the results of my work.  I've been published quite a few times, but the excitement of it never fades.  I'm not saving anybody's life with my writing, but maybe, in a small way, I'm making a difference in the world with my words.  That feels really good.

Once upon a time, a blacksmith named Horace lived in a tiny village in the kingdom of Drool.  Now, by day, Horace made horseshoes and swords and plow blades.  Ten or twelve hours a day, he was at his forge, banging hot metal with his hammer.

By night, however, Horace wrote poetry.  With quill and parchment, he scratched out odes and elegies and sonnets and limericks.  He never showed his writing to anybody.  In fact, he hid it under his straw mattress in his cottage.  Horace was ashamed of his poetry.  He thought it was no good.

One day, William Shakespeare came to Horace's blacksmith shop to have his horse shod.  (I think that's the right term.)  Horace recognized Shakespeare immediately and said timidly, "I will shoe your animal at no cost if you will read my poetry and tell me what you think."

Shakespeare agreed, and, while Horace worked at his anvil, the Bard read Horace's parchments.  Bill read all afternoon.  Finally, he turned to Horace.  Horace smiled at him.

"Well, kind sir," Horace said, "your horse is ready.  What do you think of my poetry?"

Shakespeare took the reins of his horse and mounted it.  He looked down at the anxious blacksmith.  "Dear smithy," Shakespeare, "I have read your lines."

"Yes," said Horace.  "And?"

"They suck."  Shakespeare spurred his horse and rode off.

Moral of the story:  Shakespeare was an asshole.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Everyone's a critic

VOTE FOR ME FOR U. P. POET LAUREATE (voting ends December 31):

U. P. Poet Laureate Voting 

November 3: Publication, Tough Teaching Day, "Web" Dip

Well, first things first:  I received notification this morning that an essay I submitted for publication was accepted.  In fact, the exact words of the editor were, "This is really beautiful." 

It's a Christmas essay, and it's going to be published in December.  I'll post the specifics when they become available.  I'm really excited about this acceptance.  It will be the first prose piece I've ever gotten published.  I've been writing short stories and essays since high school, but I've only ever submitted a couple of short stories to local writing contests  (with no success).  So this news is really affirming.  Times like this make me feel like I really am a writer.

I really needed this good news because I had a really tough teaching day.  I can't get into specifics, but, suffice to say, I had to put on my stern professor persona.  It was very difficult.  The situation isn't completely resolved yet, but I think everything is going to turn out fine.  I found the whole ordeal a little exhausting, however.  I stressed about it all day and then, afterwards, felt completely drained.  If I were a drinking man, I'd be on my third or fourth gin and tonic by now.  Instead, I'm sitting here, typing a blog post about how much I want to drink.  Does that make me a virtual alcoholic?  Or do I have to virtually black out a few times first?

It is Web dip Monday, and I do have a question that's been bugging me for a while now:

Is life ever going to get any easier?  (Imagine me dragging myself out of bed at 4 a.m. for work, this question on a repeating loop in my mind.)

And the answer from Charlotte is:

"That remains to be seen.  But I am going to save you, and I want you to quiet down immediately.  You're carrying on in a childish way.  Stop your crying!  I can't stand hysterics."

That is not a clear answer.  It's more like the answer my mother used to give me when I was a kid and asked stupid questions.  Instead of saying "no" immediately, my mother would say, "We'll see."  She left the door open just enough for me to believe anything was possible.


Saint Marty appreciates that open door policy.

I ain't afraid of the po-po, neither

July 7: Tired but Satisfied

It has been a long day.  I still haven't recovered from Independence Day weekend.  Lost quite a bit of sleep on Friday and Saturday.  Up late, up early.  I am totally ready to go to bed, but I'm going to have a piece of pizza first.

Even though I'm really beat, I'm satisfied with what I accomplished this evening.  Submitting poetry for publication is an act of hope.  Until I receive my rejections, I have something to look forward to and dream about.  That's the best part of the process.

Saint Marty chooses hope tonight.

Hope is relative, I guess

June 12: Another Story, Waiting for Rain, Publication

"Tell me another story!" begged Wilbur.

Wilbur is expressing a very human urge.  We all love to hear good stories.  That's why books like Charlotte's Web and The Catcher in the Rye and A Christmas Carol still exist.  They are wonderful tales.

I have not been reading much this week.  Nothing new resides in my book bag.  I've read a few good poems, but most of my reading has been back issues of Entertainment Weekly in my bathroom.  Yes, I deserve to be shamed.  I apologize.  In my defense, I have been working like mad on my Father's Day poem, which I will unveil to my disciples this Sunday.  Hopefully.

At the moment, I'm sitting in my office, blogging, waiting for the rain to start while my daughter is at dance rehearsal.  It looks like the heavens are really going to unleash something.  Dark, low clouds.  Plenty of wind.  Dusk falling.

I have decided that I am going to put forth a concerted effort to publish this summer.  I have a completed poetry manuscript that I need to place somewhere.  Somewhere good.  If I am ever going to get a full-time teaching position at a university anywhere, I need to publish.  Unfortunately, the old chestnut is true:  publish or perish.  I've been perishing for way too long.

Well, it's time to pick up my daughter.  No rain.

Saint Marty isn't going to get wet.  Yet.

This says it all

April 16: Secret Visitor, Publication, Rejection

In spring 1909, Elwyn drew upon his experiences with the secret visitor in his bedroom and wrote a poem, "To a Mouse."  The budding author, not yet ten years old, bravely sent the poem to Woman's Home Companion.  To his astonishment and delight, they accepted it for publication--and even awarded him a prize for it.

E. B. White published his first poem in a national magazine when he was nine-years-old.  Nine.  He won his first writing prize when he was nine-years-old.  Nine.  That's pretty impressive.  I could be snarky and say that the standards for acceptance must have been fairly low.  I could be even snarkier and say that it was only Woman's Home Companion, which sounds like the equivalent of Good Housekeeping.  But I'm not going to stoop to such levels.  The thing that sticks out in this whole discussion is that little Elwyn became a nationally published author when he was only four years out of kindergarten.

I didn't publish my first poem in a well-known journal until I was in graduate school.  That would put me about, oh, almost 17 or 18 years behind E. B. White.  Not that I'm competing.  I'm not.  Really.  I can't wait to find out when White published his first book.  He was probably all of twelve or thirteen.  A late bloomer.

I used to be really lucky.  For a while, every poem I sent out received an acceptance.  It was kind of crazy.  I submitted my first book of poems to one publisher.  One.  And it was accepted.  Like I said, crazy.  Of course, that streak ended quite a while ago.  In the past few years, I haven't been very successful in the acceptance department.  One or two poems, here and there.

That comes with the territory if you're a poet.  I had a student once ask me for the most important advice I'd give to any aspiring writer.  My answer:  "Get used to rejection.  A lot of it."  Poetry is an ego-bruising endeavor.

Thank God I've developed such a thick skin.

Now, if you'll excuse Saint Marty, he's going to curl into a fetal position and suck his thumb for a while.

Get used to feeling like this...

June 10: The Bounce, Summer Routines, Magic 8-Ball Monday

Summer begins in earnest today.  My daughter is done with her "official" dance classes for the year, and she officially switches into hot-weather mode.  That means sleeping in as late as possible and starting to complain about mid-afternoon that she's bored.

I always experience a definite bounce after dance recital weekend.  It's the same kind of bounce I'd feel when I was involved in theater (acting or directing).  After a show wrapped-up, at least for the first week or so, I'd be bored, sad, at a loss.  I couldn't remember how to fill my evenings.  I'd lose focus and motivation.  I'd wander around, thinking, "Where's my script?"

Perhaps my daughter doesn't experience the bounce to that degree, but she definitely gets a little off track for a couple of weeks.  Then she'll reestablish some kind of order for herself, centered around a new activity (say, private dance lessons).  I honestly believe human beings crave the kind of security that goes along with routine.  Routine is comforting, like vanilla ice cream or warm bread or the smell of cooking turkey.  We all try to avoid the unpleasant surprises of life (speeding tickets, broken arms, bed bugs at a hotel).  We like to have game plans for our lives, so to speak.

I'll give my daughter a week of being unmoored.  That will be enough time to catch up on sleep and friends.  Then I will start charting her course for the summer seas.  It will involve private dance lessons, that's for sure.  And Bible camp.  And maybe training for a two-mile fun walk/run.  I'll see how much else I can come up with.

Which leads me to my question for Magic 8-Ball Monday:

Will I get a book accepted for publication this summer?

OK, that really has nothing to do with my daughter's summer, but it's the question that's most on my mind at the moment.  And the answer from J. D. Salinger is:

I sat there on D.B.'s desk and read the whole notebook.  It didn't take me long, and I can read that kind of stuff, some kid's notebook.  Phoebe's or anybody's, all day and all night long.  Kid's notebooks kill me...

Well, there it is.  Simple and clear.  I'm going to get published.  Someone is going to get my manuscript and  it's going to "kill" him/her.  S/he's going to love my stuff, and (viola!) a new book by me!

Coming soon to Amazon:  The Chronicles of Saint Marty, or How to Survive as a Part-time Employee in a Full-time World.

That's something I think about a lot

May 30: Light of Heart, Publication, Breath

Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious company in return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, if the Ghost had given him time.  But the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew; and he and the Spirit were again upon their travels.

One of my favorite scenes in A Christmas Carol is where the Ghost of Christmas Present takes Scrooge to Fred's Christmas party.  Scrooge becomes so caught up in the festivities that he becomes "gay and light of heart."  I'm sure Scrooge hasn't had a reason to thank anybody for anything for a good portion of his adult life.  That's important.  The other important part of this passage is that the happiness Scrooge is experiencing is ephemeral, gone with "the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew."

I am gay and light of heart this morning.  I received an e-mail from the editor of an anthology of poems and stories being published by Wayne State University Press.  The editor told me that two of my poems were accepted by the editorial board for inclusion in the book.  In fact, one of the board's readers told him that my poems are among "some of his favorite in the collection."  So I'm feeling pretty good about myself today.

I know this elation won't last.  I have to pick up my wife's Subaru from the garage after work today.  That means I will be $1600 poorer at about 5:15 tonight.  Talk about being gone in a breath.

Right now, Saint Marty is going to bask in happiness, however fleeting that happiness may be.

Talk about taking the breath of happiness away!