At that time, all I knew was that I wanted to be a writer. It was the only thing I did well, and the only thing I had any sort of natural aptitude for. I had no head for math or science, and while I enjoyed the liberal arts “stuff,” like English and Social Studies, I had no intention of teaching.
Writing always came naturally, and I enjoyed it immensely. I was the type of person who was juiced about writing the book report, not reading the book. I took to writing scores of letters to anyone I had an excuse to write them to (my apologies to all those ex-girlfriends inundated with correspondence as well as “away at college” friends – no one could ever keep up with me!)
In some respects, I believe I was destined for another age, where written correspondence was not only the norm; it was a way of life. I look at the incredibly prolific correspondence between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, and long for that kind of a relationship with a "pen pal." Any takers?
While it’s generally accepted I’m a pretty good talker, I despise opening up about myself (which I’m kind of doing right now), and the best way to glean any insight into what makes me tick (if someone cares) is to read a letter from me. I’m too protective and defensive in verbal situations, but the parlance of the written word is my true element.
As usual, I’m straying. Unfortunately, despite the persistent encouragement of both my parents and my girlfriend at that time, I did nothing by way of preparation for the real world. I was on a collision course with reality, and the faster it approached, the more I denied its’ impending arrival. I worked at my part-time job as if it was a full-time job, hung out with my friends and girlfriend, and considered graduate school only as a way of staving off the inevitability of finding a job and working eight hours a day.
I grant you it was not a healthy attitude and I paid dearly for it, in the end. However, I had one ray of light amidst all the turmoil that would eventually engulf my life. As I noted earlier, I was determined to prove my worth as a writer, and have an article printed in a nationally syndicated publication right out of the gate. You know what? I did. And while I may go down in history as the Right Said Fred of the publishing world, I did get my 15 minutes in the (admittedly narrow) spotlight.
During those years my interest in film exploded. I always loved movies, but thanks to the influence of older, wiser mentors I began to explore the world of films beyond my generation. I was obsessed with horror films of the 30s and 40s, and the undisputed King of Horror, Boris Karloff.
At the behest of a good friend I devoured as much of Karloff’s work as was available at the time, traveling the highways and byways of “grey market” video recordings to obtain as much as possible. In later years, the Internet helped me expand this collection exponentially, but at this time I was limited to what was commercially available, as well as what was being offered by collectors in the back of horror magazines.
One particular period in Karloff’s filmography entranced me like no other. In the mid-forties he teamed with RKO B-Unit producer Val Lewton, to produce a trilogy of films that has become the gold standard of horror of that time. Now, a lot of ink has been spilled on Karloff by more talented writers than me, people who have conducted exhaustive scholarship on his life. However, at the time, not much had been written about this particular moment in his career. In later years, interest in Val Lewton exploded, but for its’ day, my idea was a novel one.
I contacted the editor of Filmfax magazine, the premier “film nostalgia” publication of its day (and still going strong, I might add). In a letter, I enthusiastically pitched my brilliant idea, and then hoped for the best. At the same time I began my half-hearted attempts to secure “real” employment, beginning with certain dream publications that I had no real hope of ever cracking.
To my great astonishment, the editor of Filmfax responded to my letter with a phone call, and told me to go ahead and write the piece. Of course, there were no promises made as to its’ publication. I was elated at the prospect though, and immediately set out to craft my masterpiece.
Since I worked part-time in a library I had a great deal of research material at my fingertips. However, it was a public library, so the material I unearthed was not as in depth as I hoped. I uncovered much on Karloff, but the information available on Lewton was sparse.
If I remember correctly, the entire process took about two months. My horror-loving friend and mentor proofed the article, and I sent it off. As the rejection letters piled up for my dream jobs, the hope that this article would see the light of day was all I had to go on. My ego was deflated on an almost daily basis by what arrived in our mailbox, and I soon realized I had no hope of finding a writing position in the arena of film- or comic-related publications.
I simply had not done the requisite work before I graduated to even get my foot in the door anywhere. Most of my friends from college applied for, and received internships at places they wanted to work. To me an internship meant lots of work for no money – that was it. Yes, I’m fully aware of how shortsighted and myopic that view was. Like I said, I paid the price for my lack of vision.
During that time I spent the early hours of the day at home, pretending I was still in school so my boss at the library would not fire me. He told us that once we graduated college our jobs expired, and I was terrified my head was now on the block. I concocted a story about being a “super senior,” and that I had dropped too many courses to graduate on time, thus necessitating one more semester of college. I figured that bought me at least another 6-8 months of gainful employment. It turns out I bought myself another 15 years, but that’s another story.
On one of these “pretending days” the phone rang and my mother answered it. It was the editor of Filmfax wanting to speak with me. Immediately I thought, “She wouldn’t be calling if this were a rejection.” I was right – she claimed to love the piece and promised it would be published “in about six months.” I barely contained myself while speaking to her, but the minute I hung up I screamed for joy.
Here was the proof. Here was the validation I so desperately sought. I was going to be published in a national magazine, and this meant (to me, anyway) I was a professional writer. Of course, I shared my elation with anyone who would listen, and it made for a heady few days that gave a brief respite from the soul crushing job hunt.
I think I purchased every issue of the bi-monthly magazine (whether any article interested me or not) in the hopes seeing my piece advertised in the next issue. As the months dragged on there was no mention made, and soon despair set in. I wrote the editor inquiring as to the status of the article, only to learn she left her position. That made me a little nervous, but I was assured by her replacement that the piece was still slated to appear.
Months dragged into years, and, despite encouraging words from the new editor, I despaired of ever seeing my masterwork on the newsstands. My life was rapidly entering a tailspin on several fronts. My girlfriend was ready to give me the hook for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was my lack of direction and focus in the job search. Said job search was going nowhere despite stepped up efforts on my part that lead to several interviews (all fruitless).
Then, one day, nearly 18 months after I wrote the article, I received a call from the new editor of Filmfax. My article would finally be published in the April 1994 edition, and (drum roll) it was to be the cover story! I can’t point to that many moments of pure joy in my life – it’s a rare commodity, but this was one of them. He spoke glowingly of how the article would be illustrated with wonderful stills and poster art, and apologized for the long delay.
Perhaps six weeks later my “author’s copies” arrived and I had my Dad bring them to me at the library. The article was edited heavily, but no so much that my “voice” was lost. The opening sentence was changed dramatically, but it sounded so much better that I couldn’t argue. As a writer you tend to develop a thick skin where editing is concerned - best not to take it personally.
Like everything the wave of enthusiasm and excitement died down and I was faced with my disturbing reality again. The girlfriend gave me the boot about six months later and I was fired from my first true writing job as a reporter for a local community newspaper. The boost I enjoyed from my status as a nationally-syndicated writer was all too short, but it was a crucial moment for me in an otherwise disquieting period in my life. Someone had paid me to write something ($118!), and my work was viewed all over the country (to what degree anyone approved of it I’ll never know).
Eventually, my life regained its footing. In a fit of desperation I ripped out the “publications” page in my local phone book and blanketed these companies with my resume. One of them called me in for an interview while I was still at the newsgroup. I did not get the job, and subsequently was fired from the newsgroup. However, three months after I got my walking papers from the girlfriend, this company called me again, and offered me the position. Apparently their first choice was a plagiarist.
I accepted the job gratefully, and spent five productive years there, establishing my credentials as a local reporter, having some amazing experiences in the process. From there I obtained my current position, which has lasted nearly a decade.
I remain one for one on the freelance front. I hit one out of the park my first time at bat, and never made another attempt. I suppose part of it is laziness. I write for a living, and it’s kind of difficult to muster the energy to do it in my free time. It would be a nice way to supplement my income, but when I examine my interests, and I see the scholarship that has already been produced, I often wonder what story hasn’t been told? There are writers who devote their entire lives to the study of a certain subject, and I can’t see myself doing that.
Still, I cherish that one moment in the sun. One day I was in a comic shop with some friends and someone held up the magazine with my cover story on it. The owner told his customer that he enjoyed the magazine. I couldn’t hold it in. I said, “You might not believe this, but I wrote that article on the cover!” He replied, “Why wouldn’t I believe you?” He didn’t ask me to autograph it or anything. Now that would’ve been cool.
Anybody who wants one just let me know! I’ve got plenty!
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