Photo by Amanda Hansmeyer
Monday night. I have plenty of time to exit my chambers at the courthouse, take the stairs to the third floor, wander out to my Pacifica in the parking ramp, grab my “author” clothes from hangers suspended in the cargo space of the van, and return to the privacy of my chambers to change.
3 minutes. They’re only giving me 3 minutes and I’m the freakin’ winner.
I’ve been practicing. For tonight and my three minutes of fame. You see, on a whim, and over the course of one Saturday morning about a month or so ago, I sat at this very keyboard, fired up my iMac, and wrote a short story entry to the Lake Superior Writer’s 2011 Open Genre Writing Contest. Poets, essayists, and short fiction writers were all welcome to submit a piece to LSW in hopes of winning recognition, a bit of cash, or both. So I wrote “Threshold”, a short story in response to Amanda Hansmeyer’s photograph (see above), which all the applicants used as a prompt.
Now, over the years, I’ve submitted many short stories and essays to literary magazines and journals and writing contests. The closest I ever came to winning the brass ring (a national level prize) was back in 2000, when my essay, “Leaving Mayo” was a finalist in the Faulkner-Pirate’s Alley writing contest in New Orleans. But that’s as close as I got to winning anything until recently, when my essay “Katherine Lake” was selected by 1,000 Friends of Minnesota, and my postcard story, “Missing” was named a winner by the Northwestern Ontario Writers Workshop. Granted, neither of those were as prestigious as winning the Faulkner but any recognition in the lonely pursuit of writing is a good thing, in my humble view of the world.
Sometimes knocking your forehead against the wall (metaphorically only; I need my brain cells) and submitting your work to a contest only to receive yet another rejection is the last thing a writer needs. With every word that’s typed, every plot that gets twisted, every comma that gets placed, I have doubt: doubt that what I write, what I create means anything, is anything. So, over time, I’ve lost my enthusiasm for submitting. That’s changed a bit with my recent modest success. And when I saw Amanda’s photograph in the Duluth News Tribune and LSW’s call for entries, well, I just had to give it a shot. And darn it if I didn’t win, which meant I was going to read from “Threshold”. For three minutes. To what likely would be a small audience of LSW Board members at the annual LSW meeting at Teatro Zuccone, the trendy little theater attached to the Zinema and Zeitgeist Arts Cafe in Old Downtown Duluth.
I sit at a small wooden table in the basement of the DeWitt Seitz Building, in the Amazing Grace, eating a sandwich, slurping corn chowder, and marveling at the energy of the young women working in the place. They remind me of days gone by, of when I was a college kid chasing my wife to be. Every now and then, I pretend to read from an essay in The Sun, one of my favorite literary magazines (and a publication which has rejected my work). For a while, bitter loser that I am, I stopped subscribing to The Sun after receiving yet another rejection from it. But I’ve grown some as a writer: I don’t take it personally anymore. Much. I write that I am pretending to read the Sun because my eyes can’t seem to stop following the women of Amazing Grace. There’s a short, well configured young lass with slashed auburn hair and an intriguing array of tattoos displayed against her dark skin. There’s a tall, angular red head whose eyes sparkle and mouth purses. There’s a lanky blond working at her MacBook, papers strewn all over the table top, obviously cramming for a college exam.
Youth. Wondrous, beautiful youth.
I shove trash into the garbage can, recycle a glass juice bottle, and stack my plates and utensils before leaving the funky old bakery. I don’t turn any heads: None of the young women notice the old man leaving. I’m just another semi-famous local author on his way to his 3 minutes of fame.
“I think I’m supposed to read tonight,” I say, standing in front of Kyle, a poised young social worker-poetess who often appears in front of me when I am working my “real” gig as a judge.
I can tell that, because we’re both out of our element (no black robe, no big oak bench as a buffer) I’ve caught the young lady off-guard.
“Excuse me?”
“Mark…Judge Munger.”
“Oh, I didn’t recognize you. Yes, as the first prize winner, you’re actually going to read first, before the poets.”
We talk a bit more. I understand my role in the evening’s course of events: Short LSW meeting. An introduction from Kyle. Accept the check. Read for three minutes. Sit down. Go pick up Jack from Boy Scouts.
That last item, of course, no one else at the theater knows about. I’m doing double duty tonight, as I have for thirty-one years: I’m not only the writer guy; I’m Dad.
Patty, an old friend from law school, someone I haven’t seen in three decades, shows up to hear me read. We exchange pleasantries. She sits next to me in the front row of the darkly lighted theater. The place begins to fill up. Soon, every seat in the house is taken. There are a couple dozen folks of all ages, shapes, and sizes standing in the spooky recesses of the entry way.
Standing room only.
Then it’s my turn. I take the stage to join the young woman.We follow our prearranged ritual: Kyle introduces me, hands me an envelope containing my check and reclaims her seat. I take a deep breath.
“It’s dangerous to give a lawyer a microphone and tell him he’s only got three minutes to talk,” I say.
Laughter. I read. I don’t screw up (much). I sit down. I am amazed by the talented poets, young and old, who follow me.
It’s a remarkable night.
Peace.
Mark
Thanks to LSW for making the night one to remember. You can read the entire story, “Threshold” filed under the tab “Other Writings” on the dashboard of this blog site. If you live in the Lake Superior Basin and want to become part of a vibrant writing community for support, socialization, or just to hang out with cool folks, contact LSW for a membership application at http://lakesuperiorwriters.wordpress.com/membership/. You can see more of Amanda’s remarkable photography at http://amandahansmeyer.photoshelter.com/.
