A Very Special Collectible

This essay was originally written specifically for a small magazine for book collectors, but I never quite got it just the way I wanted for the publication in question. Still, I think it's a pretty good essay, even if it doesn't have a home. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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Whether one buys older books for their monetary value or for the sheer visceral pleasure of smelling the dust of ages past, an added joy can be found in the artifacts left behind between their covers. The impromptu bookmarks and scrolled inscriptions of the past, even if they lend nothing to the financial worth, can give books a simple and meaningful significance.

Throughout my college years, I uncovered many great treasures from that bargain bin—an undated Dickens, a forgotten Dumas, an ancient Defoe—but none was so precious to me as a copy of The Fountainhead found unwanted and overlooked at the bottom of a pile. Although it was not in the best shape—its cover stained, its title rubbed from the spine, signs of mildew creeping through it like some kind of cruel leprosy—I knew the book was something special. Without hesitation, I slapped down the three and a half dollars to make it mine.

Research told me that I had found a rare Bobbs-Merrill edition, but to my dismay, I also found that a single page had been cut from the middle of the book—the remnants barely apparent along the binding. Monetarily the book was valueless, but in my heart it was still the crown jewel of my collection.

Many years and many books later, it remained on the most honored of my shelves—nestled between a leather-bound volume of Shakespeare and a boxed edition of Cervantes—barely read yet still loved. From time to time I would take it down and simply caress the cover or flip idly through the pages, reveling in the smell of that far-away store. It was during one of these hedonistic pettings that I finally noticed its inscription; although how I missed it during all of those years still escapes me. The words scratched in faded green ink only told of a former owner, a man who had loved this book enough to ensure it would come home if ever lost.

My book, the writing told, had once been owned by a serviceman in the military. His name, rank, serial number and unit carefully written in precise handwriting: Sergeant George H. Normandin of the 351st Bomber Group. Curious, I took the information for my new compatriot, George, and quickly tried to hunt down information on the man and his platoon. I never found George, but from the bits I was able to piece together he and his men flew the South Pacific during World War II. The Fountainhead was first published during the war, and though I have no way to prove it, I can imagine George carrying the novel with him as he went to fight for his values.

To me the book’s stains and scars are now easily explained; its rubbed edges and its crumpled boards standing as a testament to spending life on a carrier while its owner was away on a plane. The missing page, which had been so carefully cut from the book, was accounted for as well. That page was taken from Roark’s famous courtroom speech; a speech which speaks of fighting for your values, of standing up for your freedom, of holding your own good as a paramount virtue. I don’t blame George for keeping that page. Of all the things to carry into battle, the weapon he chose would have served him well.

Collecting books for many years now, I have found many artifacts of the previous owners—news clippings and grocery lists left to mark pages where the reader paused, flowers and leaves pressed flat to preserve a memory, notes scribbled to mark important passages. Each piece of ephemera I find adds a definite personal value to a potential monetary one. Still, I doubt that I will ever find another piece for my collection so precious as the one left by George.

Upon the Stage

This piece was written years ago, more as a recorded memory than a fiction piece. Think of this as flexing my writing muscles. This was one of the many first exercises before I completed my first novel.

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Upon the Stage

Peering through the crack in the door she could see the auditorium filling and she flexed her fingers. After four years, one would think she wouldn’t be so nervous before the annual Spring Concert. The year before she’d risen to the honor of first chair flute and had been the soloist. She’d been nervous then, but this was something different. Maybe because it was her last year; maybe it was because she was playing piccolo this year instead of flute. She wasn’t sure.

She turned away from the door again, but the band room didn’t hold any appeal. She could hear the various other instruments tuning up and practicing one final time. If she went over the piece one more time, she could make certain of those trills, but the thought caused the butterflies in her stomach to break mach 3. Maybe she could straighten her uniform for the millionth time.

As she entered the bathroom, she caught a glimpse of herself – blue trousers, blue suit coat, tuxedo shirt – complete with ruffles, bowtie. She looked awesome. Taking her brush out of her purse, she brushed her hair to a sparkling glow. It was time.

Back in the band room, her friends and fellow band members were lining up for entry onto the stage. She waved at Janine who shifted her oboe and waved back. Janine would soon be headed off to Michigan State. She nodded to Joe who smiled and went back to practicing fingerings on his sax. He would be off to U of M. Many of them would be leaving high school soon – off into the world and the future.

Taking her place, she turned to look at Don – the new first chair flute – and smiled. She thought about the day when he had won the chair position from her. He was good; he practiced hard; he deserved to lead the flutes. She hadn’t tried to beat him – which bothered her still – but she already had her sights set on taking the piccolo position. It was a simple shift, and she still lead the section. Tonight would be her first public piccolo performance of the one piece that had scared her four years ago. On the flute, it was difficult; on the much smaller piccolo, it was excruciating.

As they ascended the stage, she scanned the crowd. Far in the back, she could make out her other friend, Maria, who had come for moral support. She suppressed the urge to wave. Concert flautists didn’t wave and she was ‘in the zone’. In the middle to the left she spotted her parents. Dad was wearing that powder blue suit coat, which would have bothered her at any other time, but was strangely comforting tonight. Mom looked great.

The entire band took their places, standing straight and proud before their chairs. The teacher nodded and as one they took their seats. He raised his baton and the music began. Each piece sounded flawless to her ears and she was playing better than she had ever played in her life. But she knew that those pieces were nothing compared to what was scheduled for the last piece.

Finally, the program was coming to a close. It was nearly time. The conductor tapped his baton on the podium and they raised their instruments to their lips in one fluid motion. Her body was poised in the perfect shape of an L – back straight, head held high. And Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever began.

She was never so proud in her life. The notes were coming from the piccolo as if it had a life of its own, but she knew that she was the one who gave it life. Never before – and never since – had she played with such precision and such clarity. The trills, which had always given her trouble, were easy beneath her fingers.

When the final notes were still lingering in the air, the conductor lifted his arms and they rose again and bowed. He nodded and the senior members of the band walked to center stage. The crowd rose to its feet and the applause was deafening. She bowed one last time upon the stage and lead her band slowly down the steps.

Reflections of an Unpublished Writer

Below is an essay I wrote for a writers forum I belonged to last year. This got mixed reviews. Some people thought it was uplifting; others thought it was depressing as hell. I fall in the former category. This business of writing can only get you down as long as you let it. This is the story of breaking free of the vicious circle of depression and writer's block, of moving forward past the pain.

I hope you'll find it as uplifting as I do.
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Reflections of an Unpublished Writer

After weeks, or months or years, sitting at your keyboard trying to get a story out of your head, you type those most wonderful words: The End. You’ve finished your first book! You feel like dancing around the house (and maybe you do, just because you can). You open a bottle of champagne (or a beer, or a bottle of Boones Farm) and bask in the glow of being amongst the few who started writing a book and actually finished it. Feeling pretty proud of yourself, you strut around your house like a god. (And why not? You should be damned proud of yourself because you have accomplished a great feat.)

But eventually, the inevitable question arises: What now?

Maybe you pick up The Writer’s Market and start attaching sticky notes to every agent who looks like they might represent you. You know you aren’t really sure what you’re doing, but you shrug and pick the one absolutely perfect agent who is certain to love your book as much as you do.

You read a little bit about what the agent wants you to send, mainly because you know there’s got to be some kind of procedure for this. Then you think to yourself: What in gods’ name is a query? You shrug and put together a reasonable looking business letter, and mail it off with a return envelope. (Assuming you’ve figured out what SASE stands for, that is.) Time passes and your envelope comes back. Your heart swells with expectation, never thinking its contents could be anything but glowing praise, only to find a nice letter inside telling you while your work isn’t for them, they’re sure you’ll find an agent in no time.

Bruised but not broken, you whip out your big book of agent names, and pick a few more. After all, Perfect Agent was sure one of his brethren would snap you right up. Same letter, different names and off they go into the blue box on the corner. And you wait.

A few more days (weeks, etc.) pass and all your little envelopes find their ways home with more rejections—all pretty much worded the same as the first. More queries go out; more rejections come back. You kick yourself, and cry a little maybe. You throw your big book of agents across the room, and curse the day they were born. You go through all the phases of loss: Anger, Denial, etc. until you get to the inevitable Acceptance.

You suck. Now you're cursing the day you were born.

Weeks go by, and dust covers your keyboard. You thought your words glowed like the sheen of love on a young girl’s face. Now you just think you’re a hack.

Finally, however, your creative juices reach their boiling point. You can’t take it anymore; you can’t NOT write, so you sit back down at your computer. You start writing your next book.

But your confidence is toast. When you started out the last time, you knew without a doubt that you could write. There was nothing to it, and the words flowed out of your fingers like a dam had burst somewhere along the Colorado River. Now, it’s like Death Valley.

Hopefully, a little light bulb goes off over your head. When you first started writing—way back when you were in 2nd grade and your teacher made you write about your summer vacation—you were learning how to put words together to make some kind of cohesive story. It was a learning process then; it is a learning process now.

Hopefully, a little voice in your head tells you to figure out what went wrong with the last book. You do some research. You pick a whole new list of agents who really do represent your genre. You find out what a real query letter looks like. You find out how to write something called a hook. You read everything you can get your grubby little hands on. When you’ve learned everything there is to know about the business, you try again.

In the meantime, maybe you realize your writing, as wonderful as it is, needs some fine tuning and a little more polish. While revising and editing your first book, you keep writing your second book, tweaking and shining until it really does glow. A short story or two come to mind, and you pour those words onto the paper while you mull over your novels.

You never quit. Because NOT writing would be like not breathing.

Maybe you’re still waiting for your acceptance letter to come. Maybe it’s waiting in line behind another slew of rejections. Or perhaps, it’s waiting because you just haven’t queried the right agent yet. But no matter what happens, if you’ve done your work, you have done your best to kick the obstacles out of your way. And you can come to realize no matter what has happened or will happen...

You are a writer.