A lesson learned (or I, too, have paid the price)
October 31, 2002 ~ 11:22 a.m.
When LA-the-Sage recently chronicled the sometimes amusing responses that writers receive from those who fear those with both an appreciation and an art for the written word, I was reminded of quite an amusing episode. In retrospect, it was amusing. At the time, it was a brutally irritating lesson.
One week, late in 1996, The Boston Herald newspaper published one of my letters as the Sunday lead letter � complete with bold-print title and photograph of the then 27-year-old nightdragon. 1996 was a good year for me. That was the second letter they�d chosen to cast in the Sunday lead spotlight and they�d also published a guest column I�d submitted. So when I saw my letter, I just smirked. I was getting used to the limelight that the Herald was allowing me, for years now, on a regular basis. It was a young writer�s dream � fame (tens of thousands of readers would be seeing my name and even my likeness with their morning cup o�joe and probably thinking, Now where have I heard that name before?) and even a little fortune (the newspaper paid me $25 for the letter, the fifth check I�d received from them to date). What could be sweeter than that?
I was about to sit down to dinner when the phone rang. Figuring it was one of my friends calling, I answered the phone expecting to be able to say, �Hey, I�m just about to eat, so, see ya� later,� when I heard a voice I didn�t recognize. He sounded between the ages of 65-75 and he started telling me right from the get-go that he disagreed with what I wrote � I had opined that Clinton should focus on domestic issues instead of all the foreign entanglements he was getting America into � and proceeded to list his 1,001 reasons why. I was hardly able to get a word in edgewise and I was a bit reluctant to because I did not want to be rude. I had been brought up to respect my elders � something this man clearly was.
I did manage to ask one important question of him: �How did you get my number?� I was shocked at the notion that anyone at the newspaper would have given it to him.
�Well,� he replied. �Let�s just say that � uh � I have my ways.� Then he laughed. I stated to feel rather spooked. I had good reason, say not?
The elderly chap continued on his ramble about why America needed to be in Haiti and Korea and Somalia, etc. etc. Whenever I expected him to finally say �well, thanks for allowing me to have my say, sorry to have bothered you, have a nice day,� I ended up greatly disappointed. He just would not shut up. And, despite the fact that my dinner was now cold, needed to be re-heated and would therefore not taste as good (reheated salmon never does), that he�d kept me on the line for nearly an hour and that I just did not want to hear anymore, I was too timid to shout �hey, shut up, huh?� and hang up. I was a prisoner of two emotions � the aforementioned ingrained respect for my elders and gratitude. Yes, gratitude. He had, after all, read my letter.
When I finally bid him adieu, I had the most pained expression on my face. Mom had been busy in the kitchen the whole time. As she threw my dinner back into the oven, I beseeched her, �Why didn�t you help me out? Why didn�t you try to get me out of that horrid phone call, feign some sort of emergency, anything?� I was livid at having been so bothered.
My mater gave me a knowing look and said, �So asked the boy who sought fame but isn�t willing to put up with its price.�
She was right. If we are true to ourselves as writers, we must be willing to answer for ourselves. It�s a lesson I learned not only recently here in Diaryland, but quite some time ago.
Like painters and musicians, writers are suffering artists too.
� M.E.M.
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Copyright � 2001-2007 by M.E. Manning. All material is written by me, unless explicitly stated otherwise by use of footnotes or bylines. Do not copy or redistribute without my permission.
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