The Five

 

Who are the five that silently stalk this blog? They never comment. They never share. They never like. I know one is a friend but the other four - are they just automated pings, views that were never seen?  Or is there someone out there who is truly interested?

1939 New York World's Fair

 

1939 New York World's Fair: It’s theme was the Dawn of a New Day - the world of tomorrow. 

I love the euphoria and optimism.  This was right before World War 2.  It was as if they were oblivious to the real future that lied just ahead. Or perhaps they did sense what was coming  and preferred to look to the distant future, one that included fantastic inventions like Electro the robot created by Westinghouse, where everything was amazing and the world lived in peace.

   

The Trylon and Perisphere

USSR pavilion

Crickets, Flies and Wasps

The deadline has come and gone. April is over. And all I am left with is crickets.  I submitted a short story to a group publishing a book on the COVID pandemic as experienced in Burlington, Ontario. Considering I was competing against only fellow Burlingtonians, I rather arrogantly thought my submission would be successful. Instead I was rejected by crickets. 

There is something particularly disappointing about not receiving some sort of confirmation from agents and publishers that they are not interested.  You are never sure how long you should hold out before accepting their apparent rejection of your work.  They always give you a drop dead date such the end of the month and in 8 weeks but if you feel hopeful you tell yourself to wait just a bit longer. With crickets when you finally accept your rejection, your mind fills in the spaces.  It decides how horrible your submission was and makes up everything that was wrong with it and then believes even worse.

I understand that there are many submissions, rather an enormous number of submissions, and I understand that being short staffed makes it impossible to respond to each one individually. If agents or publishers do respond it is generally a short automated reply with cut and paste personalisation features. They are like flies, numerous and harmless.

For example:

I'm sorry, but your project does not sound like a fit for me at this time, and so I will have to pass. Thank you for considering me and best of luck with your future queries.

or

Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to consider your project. I carefully read and consider each submission I receive, and I’m sorry to say that yours is not quite right for me.


Agenting is subjective, and while I couldn’t take on your project, another agent may well feel differently. I wish you the very best of luck with your work in the future and thank you for thinking of me.

 

 or

 

Thanks so much for sharing ELAGABALUS with me. Unfortunately, I don't think I'm the right agent for this project, so I will have to pass.

Please keep in mind that this is a subjective business and mine is only one opinion. I wish you all the best in your search for representation and in your writing career.

 

 or

 

Thank you for your email and for your interest in this agency. I am sorry to say that this is not the kind of book we are looking for at the moment.

Good luck with finding a suitable home for your work elsewhere.

 

All of these responses indicate their decision was made fairly quickly. They read the query and decided it was not for them. Just like looking for a novel in a bookstore, they've quickly looked at the title, the book cover or the tag line and have decided to move on to another shelf. When agents send back a short reply, it is disappointing but I'm fine with it.

The worst, even worse than the crickets, are the wasps. Those are the rejections that make you feel like you actually had a chance but that your writing failed you.

Thank you for sending me your query for OBLIVION. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I must pass on this project; I wasn’t as pulled in by the opening pages as I'd hoped.

Ouch! "as I had hoped" - that one stung, just as this one did:

 

I spent some time thinking about the potential of your story and my own expertise in relation to a potential partnership. I read each query with my own list in mind and specific genres I have a need for, and at this moment, I truly believe I am not the right agent for this project at this time. I am currently looking for a few specific stories, and this one isn't quite what I know I can take on right now.

Using the bookstore analogy again - it was as if she had picked up the book and read the back cover and a few pages before putting it back on the shelf. I had piqued her interest but my writing did not deliver.

It is challenging to continue to believe in yourself and your work. Getting published is an up hill battle. On days when I am feeling positive I send out queries and hope for the best.  On those when I am feeling down, I shy away and hide my work and listen to the crickets. 

A pregame pep talk for the ages

This is a story I wrote that was published in the Globe & Mail (Nov 29, 2011).


It's a cliché, but some of the most memorable moments in sport often hinge on the coach's pregame pep talk. The most influential one I have ever heard was at my son's first Timbits hockey final.

After his first season of early-morning practices and extra time spent on the backyard rink, my son still skated in a one-foot scooter style. He could make a wicked right turn, but that was about it. The rest of the team pretty much matched his skill level, except for the one kid who could actually skate and stickhandle at the same time.

There we were in a room full of six-year-old boys and their excited fathers. Our team was the "feared" Bruins. The kids had actually wanted to be called the Bumblebees because the uniform was black and yellow, but the coach vetoed that for a more storied hockey name. The dads were relieved. It didn't matter that none of the kids knew that a Bruin was from Boston or that it was even a mammal for that matter. It was clearly the proper name for a black-and-yellow team.

The excitement among the adults in my son's dressing room was palpable. It was the first game our sons would play on the full ice and the score was actually going to be kept on the scoreboard. The parents would not have to use their fingers this time. It would be an official win.

Moreover, for many of the dads it was their first direct experience with "playoff hockey" in a very long time, if ever. We were all reliving our own moments on the ice.

I played hockey as a kid for three years and scored one goal. I remember it as clear as a bell. It was the first game of my third season. There was a mad scramble in front of the net, as happens in most games involving little kids still struggling with the concept of blade on ice.

I was in my usual position outside the crowd. I am not a particularly assertive person and driving hard to the net was not my style. Rather, I stood by the hash marks expecting a whistle and therefore being better prepared to return to the bench.

At any rate, there were nine players and a goalie falling over each other looking for the puck when suddenly it squirted out and stopped in front of me. No one knew it was there so I had plenty of time to plant my skates firmly and line up the puck on the back of my stick.

I could not do a wrist shot and, surprisingly, I had enough wherewithal to know I had to get the puck up in the air and over the scrum. Clearly I had a great deal of time to think this through. I positioned myself, visualized the shot and mentally crossed my fingers, then managed to shovel the puck just high enough that it toppled into the net. I was mobbed by my teammates. I scored! I have no idea whether we won or lost but I had scored.

After the game my brother, who was eight years older and so much cooler, congratulated me with genuine enthusiasm. He was impressed with my new season pace of a goal a game and proclaimed, "You are going to have a hot year."

I remember basking in his excitement and forecast. Alas, it was a once-in-a-lifetime moment that I will always cherish. I retired from hockey with a career stat of one point.

My son's coach turned to the chalkboard – one more hockey accessory yet to be put to use this first season – and wrote one word on it: FUN. As he wrote, the room fell silent. He paused for a moment with his back to the players, then emphatically underlined the word and turned to his team.

"Okay Bruins. Listen up! I want you to remember one word today: fun." He turned and underlined the word one more time, then threw down the piece of chalk to punctuate the drama. The room was spellbound. I smiled. This was perfect, I thought.

The coach looked around the room at each player, then suddenly became animated. He pointed to the word and repeated it. "Fun. Do you know what that stands for?" He paused for a moment.

"F. F stands for fast skating. I want everyone skating as fast as they can at all times. U. U stands for up the ice. Drive the other team's net. This is the last game of the season and I do not want to see anyone holding back. Finally N," he paused to make sure he had everyone's attention. "N stands for no-nonsense. We are here to play hockey, not fool around. We are here to play hard. We are here to win. Now get out there and show them what the Bruins are made of. On three give me a 'Bruins!' One, two, three, Bruins!"

All the dads eagerly joined in the final cheer, then congratulated the coach on his speech. Some even asked for a paper copy to mark the moment. With a pep talk like that, I am sure we won. To be honest, though, I can't really remember.

After the game, my son was overwhelmed with excitement.

"Did you see that? There was a real ref wearing a black-and-white striped shirt on the ice!"

That became the highlight of the game for both of us.

It was then that I stopped keeping score and my son's hockey games became more about the Bumblebees and less about the Bruins.