The letter arrived in the mail just as I was
going to take a shower. The mail carrier dropped the mail in the mailbox. I
opened the front door a crack, stuck my arm out, and picked up the mixture of
junk mail and bills. The business-size envelope stood out. The address was the
same one I typed on my old Royal manual. Stamped in black on the upper left-hand
corner was The Southern Review return address. The fifteen-cent
"Star Spangled Banner" stamp I had licked and placed on the envelope
sat proudly on the upper right corner. I threw the junk mail in the trash and
sat at my kitchen table, placing the envelope face up. I examined the postmark.
I could only make out three digits of the zip code, a huge PM in the center of
the postmark, and nothing of the date was legible. I stood, walked to the
refrigerator, grabbed a beer, a sharp knife, and returned to the envelope. I
placed the knife blade under the flap and slit it opened, but I didn't pull out
the single sheet inside. Instead, I took a long pull from the beer and prayed.
"Please, God, let this be an
acceptance."
I was a graduate student at the University of
Southwestern Louisiana (USL), now known as the University Louisiana, Lafayette
(ULL). I had written a collection of short stories set in a small Cajun
community to use as my creative thesis, and was trying to get a few stories
published to give my work some credibility. Ernest Gaines, my writing teacher,
had introduced me to his agent a few months earlier, and she had asked me to
send her some of my work, so I sent her six stories and a stamped,
self-addressed, envelope in case she needed to send them, or some suggestions,
back to me. To my surprise, she sent me a brief note saying that she had
submitted three of the stories to The Southern Review.
This letter was the magazine's response.
I finished my beer and opened another. All my
dreams, my hopes, lay in that nine and a half by four-inch envelope, and never
in my life had I been so afraid to open a letter. I lit up a cigarette, took a
few puffs, drank some more beer, and picked up the envelope. I smelled it. I
turned it over—turned it over again and pulled out the neatly folded paper.
At the age of fifteen, I sent a story to a pulp
magazine—I don't even remember the name. When the reply came, I could barely
contain my excitement. I ripped open the envelope, pulled out a slip of paper,
and read the mimeographed response: "Thank you for your submission. We're
sorry, but your story does not meet our needs at this time." I was
heartbroken, angry, and resolved never to send out my work again until I had learned
to be a "real" writer. So, here I was, fifteen years older, and
steeling myself for the same disappointment I'd felt as a young boy.
I finished my cigarette, crushed it out in the
ashtray, and picked up the folded letter. I lifted a corner and a slip of paper
fell out. It was a check made out to me for one hundred dollars. I stared at it
for a full minute before I realized that The
Southern Review had accepted one of my stories and were paying me.
I unfolded the letter and read it. The magazine
had accepted three of my works, and they were scheduled to appear in the winter
1984 edition. Editor Lewis P. Simpson's signature appeared at the bottom. I
grabbed the letter and the check, ran out to the backyard of my duplex, and
yelled as loudly as I could, "I'm a writer. I'm a paid writer." My
neighbors must have thought I was drunk or mad, but I didn't care. I was a real
writer, a paid writer.
That was many years ago, and I've had many
stories published since then, some paid, some not, but none of them came close
to the exhilaration I felt that day. The money has long been spent and the
letter lost in the passage of time, but the memory is etched in my mind.
_______________________________________
You can read the three stories in my collection, Lighted Windows.
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