Physically, we are rooted in the here and now. Mentally, we are either in the past, present, or future. Who’s to say that when we are in the past or future, that it isn’t real? Where our imagination resides at that given moment, it’s real all right.
What brought this to mind is my doing yet another revision of “The Books I Carried,” for the Anchorage Daily News Writing contest. Every year, at this time, they have this contest, it’s as much a figurative institution as is as a literal institution. This time of year, all Alaskan writers, in a manner of speaking, sharpen their pencils and their wits, then submit what they believe to be their very best work. All for a small honorarium and a large pat on the back. |
Charleen rode with Alys along the Glenn Highway
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I have never won. I may never win. In this respect, each year, the past and the present shake hands, then turn around and go their separate ways. Me, I, in the present, I stand, firmly rooted, my work again having again refused to speak louder than a whisper for itself.
This year, after considerable angst, I decided to revise “The Books I Carried” and submit it because I had nothing else to submit. I could have excerpted one of the two books that I’ve been waiting on Pete to copy edit, but I have lost faith in them, my reasoning being that if it’s taken him this long to get to it, they must not be any good.
The contest guidelines said the essay needed to be less than 5,000 words. Mine was 8,000 words. I began cutting it down two months ago, then at 6,200 words I stopped and instead worked on putting together one of two Bright Lights Book Project grants. Just last night I thought, I am going to see if I can cut out 1,800 words; if nothing else, this would be an interesting exercise.
I did it. Pared down, this essay now seems to me to be like a naked man – there is little left to imagination. Far better I left him wearing a Speedo swimsuit. Now there is nothing left to the imagination – his pecker is small, dried, and shriveled like a desiccated carrot, left a month too long in the refrigerator crisper.
Oh ye of little faith. Of course, I hope that no one will come up with anything better in the Creative Nonfiction Adult category. There are three final places – I’m not proud, I’ll stand on the podium and take the bronze medal.
The reason I hope that I win is that I am feeling like a literary has been, an also ran who never made it to finish line. Now that I’m in the twilight of my years, my hope that a receptive audience for my work will materialize is no longer all that important. This is partially why I am doing the book project. I wore myself out in my attempt to become an over achiever.
Ahh, but hope continues to spring eternal, which is why, yes, I clicked on the word at the bottom of the entry form, the one that read SUBMIT.
Next: 47. 2/16/21: Snow Day |