WELL, IN THE SENSE, I’VE HAD A ROYALTY PAYMENT SO AM NOW A PROFESSIONAL WRITER!
FOR ARACHNE PRESS EIGHTH ANNIVERSARY
by Carolyn Eden (author)
There was a time when I did not submit any of my stories or poems to publishers because the rejection was too hard to bear. I didn’t need the stress of waiting for the inevitable rejection slips clattering through my letterbox and found that I was happier writing for myself, and occasionally sharing stuff with friends and family. My sons liked the children’s stories I wrote about them and that was sufficient. I had written two novels which sadly were not deemed publishable.
Many people cannot understand my stance on rejection because as my main profession is as an actor not getting the audition, let alone the job, is commonplace. The thing is that when, despite doing my best, I have not been chosen I no longer take it personally. I have often known the successful actor and whilst they may not be more competent than I, they will have had something that made the difference; being taller, slimmer, fatter, blonder, older, younger, more experienced or simply better connected.
I know that I can act and that if I work hard enough then I would do most roles justice.
Writing is different. When I have worked on a piece, agonised over words, phrases, denouements, titles, and sent if off for consideration, I have reached the stage where the writing has become very personal no matter what the theme might be. Thurs rejecting my creative writing is like rejecting my child.
(No, not really, my sons are far more important than a trifling two thousand word short story, but, emotionally, as the slip of paper fell out of the envelope with its platitudes about “on this occasion”, “standard of submission”, “wish luck” etc. it is very personal.)
Thus in the 80’s with rising mortgage rates, horrid day job, terminally ill parents I stopped submitting I used to always get top marks for composition at school so thought it best to rest on those laurels and keep my scribbles to myself.
Then a miracle.
I passed the audition to read for Liars League and got to perform short stories, jackanory for adults, in packed rooms sometimes above and sometimes below pubs. What joy! Supportive, artistic people in a safe atmosphere. So I dug out an old story I had particularly liked and felt would work well read aloud and attached it to an email. (21st century, no need to for stamped addressed envelopes nor carbon paper.) Easy.
First story got feedb
ack, quite acerbic but honest and strangely did not discourage me as at least my writing was deemed worthy of comment and had thus made the long-list.
To my job and amazement the second story I submitted was accepted.
Wow!
Obviously, they were scraping the barrel as insufficient submissions had been received to make the evening viable, I surmised. Scraping the barrel to include my tale but what a buzz that gave me. (In fact, at rehearsal I was told that over forty stories for six slots had indeed been received.) Mind you it was very strange to watch another actress bring my work to life.
Over the past few years I have had several stories, poems and sketches accepted (lost count of those rejected) and each one has brought me joy and a feeling of self-worth.
Then the most wonderful thing happened. Cherry Pots who had written a story for me to perform, liked a poem I had written for a Magna Carta event. This lead to her reading the short story, “Free White Towel”, upon which it was based and asking if she could publish it in “Liberty Tales”, a proper paper book, all printed nicely, justified, my name in the contents page. A contract too with notes about payment (have to admit not a lot as shared between all the other authors therein) but golly gosh with knobs on, somehow I was a properly published author.
I have now had three stories in three different anthologies published which to me is wonderful beyond belief. Arachne Press along with Liars’ League have restored my confidence in my writing skills and when last month, I received my first royalty payment I finally felt justified in having the word “author” as my occupation on official documents as I write under my legal name of Carolyn Eden but am known as Carrie Cohen for acting work.
Arachne Press has changed my life for the better and their anthologies make the perfect special occasions presents, especially Liberty Tales, We/She and Departures!
Here is a shorter version of the poem that led to my adventures in publishing.
BUS PASS By Carolyn Eden
I’m
A magpie watching daybreak’s dew slither skywards,
As the park gates
(either end of the one-eight-eight route
Russell Square to Greenwich, don’t you know?)
Swing open.
An age ago
My sleep was pocked.
The worst dreams were the happy ones,
Waking from bliss, into a bruised chaos that
Stung, like a paper-cut finger,
Today is already good.
A teenager with a dainty ballerina air screeched,
“Eee, is that the time?”
Abandoning two-thirds of a pain au chocolat and
Half slurped milky tea.
Bitter tea, nasty tea.
Why is the sugar free?
It’s bad for you.
But sometimes I suck on the sachets
And then rinse my mouth.
I prefer coffee but am no longer a chooser.
If you walk hotel corridors with purpose, aplomb,
Two plombs maybe (?)
You can slide your hand,
Like a dust-seeking mother-in-law
Encountering a picture rail,
And pilfer biscuits, mouth-wash, shoe-shine cloths
And ball point pens useless to trade
From the chambermaid’s trolley.
The restroom at The Strand Palace
(The ninety-one from Trafalgar Square)
Has hand-cream to splodge where it chafes
And the ladies’ at Fenwicks
Has a fragrance-collection
Beside the attendant’s tipping saucer.
I am not averse to the free make-over.
There are seventy-two cosmetic counters
Within a hair’s-breath of Oxford Circus.
Always clean, never smell.
I sleep in dribs where I can.
I eat the dregs.
I ride
The thirty-eight to the British Museum,
The seventy-four out to the Victoria and Albert,
Returning, a stone’s throw from The Wallace Collection,
Where someone else dusts the cabinets
Polishes the silver
And genuflects to a ruffled, old master.
The twenty-five goes east; the one-seven-one crosses the river
Back to
Nowhere.
Ah, you won’t catch me out.
My favourite is the one-six-eight to Primrose Hill
And sometimes, with only five changes over several hours,
I can inhale cockles
Warming my heart on Brighton beach.
Five months, two weeks, four days since I walked.
And walked.
And then took the bus.
It was more sensible than walking.
On Thursday at Waterloo they gave away oranges
With the Evening Standard.
I only took one.
Liberty, is a pass called:-
Freedom.