I, Manuscript
One gloomy afternoon many
years ago I, Larry Mild, was feeling low, way down after too many rejection
slips. So I picked myself up by writing the following tongue-in-cheek piece. I
took the point of view of a manuscript so as not to jeopardize my future
chances as an illustrious author.
Hello! I am Manuscript, a
neglected one at that, and whether you know it or not, stories like mine have
feelings, meaning, and purpose. My creative parents have endowed me with
certain of their finest attributes, and I have an obligation to convey these to
my readers. Despite my eagerness to please and inform, I am also bound to
endure a long and arduous journey.
One doesn't easily forget the
anxiety of being suppressed in the dark recesses of a mind—mulling, gestating,
and waiting for a life on paper, or at least a trial at lip service. During my
struggle to exist, I'm called many things; finally, I'm baptized with a working
title. My initial exposure to the monitor is terrifying. I'm in my first draft
and shaking. My prenatal experience is filled with disruptive punctuation,
spelling, re-phrasing, and annoying forethoughts and flashbacks. Then,
emotionally torn from my birth printer, I arrive in complete innocence, all
eight-and-a-half by eleven inches and twenty-pound bond of me. If I am not
perfect, how can this be my fault? I had nothing to do with my origins. In
fact, I appeared on the purest of blank pages made from humble rag and mere
pulp.
I crave my parents'
affection. Do they think me precious and commendable? If I'm rejected, what
will become of me? I could be thrown in drawers to jaundice away, shelved to
gather layers of dust, locked up in loose-leaf binders to serve some guiltless
sentence, crunched and mutilated beyond repair in deep round baskets, and
utterly abandoned for eternities.
I survive, but there are
worse travails ahead for the likes of me. My pages are deemed worthy to travel
to one or more meccas of literary processing gurus—there to be judged, not only
for gems of wordsmanship, style, content, or cohesiveness; but mostly for the
possible wealth and privilege I can generate in the publishing field. My touted
attributes and my parents' pedigrees are included in many initial query letters
to addresses obtained on websites that vociferously solicit submissions of my
particular phylum, family, and genre. I try to contain my emotions when I see
these letters eliciting only a modest number of form letter responses—a few
with invitations to submit in the future and a considerably larger number to
effectively take a literary hike. I'm further insulted when the message is
"My stable is full" or "We're not taking any new clients until
the next millennium" or "We are no longer accepting submissions in that
genre." The negative responses make me wonder why they are still
soliciting on their websites. Yet the affirmative few turn a bright new page in
my life.
What happens next? I'm forced
to lose weight, shed numerous words, and even endure a physical makeover. My
margins need to be girdled to accommodate some ideal figure. My header is
messed with and my footer is stepped on or truncated. My pagination requires a
new location. And all of these hoop jumps are the result of fickle cosmetic
forces called submission guidelines that are specified on very differing guru
websites. These same guidelines warn against simultaneously submitting my
cloned siblings elsewhere, even though the decision on my submission may take
up to a year. Good grief! At that rate, we'll all be in the Great Filing
Cabinet in the Sky before very many gurus can be queried. Only a writer who
believes in the tooth fairy complies with that one.
With mixed feelings, my
cloned siblings and I finally leave home for the first time, but not alone.
Accompanied by an SASE, a cover letter, and an acknowledgment-of-receipt
postcard, I am slipped into a manila envelope, sealed into darkness, and
stamped abruptly on one shoulder before being dropped altogether in some postal
receptacle. Getting there is grueling—thin air, rough handling, more stamping,
and finally, I'm deposited in someone's IN basket. My package is opened, and my
cover letter perused by one or more recent English majors of school-teacher
proportions, who make the first-level decision—either I'm someone they'd love
to read or not. The nots are redirected toward the dreaded "slush
pile," unopened, but not quite refused...yet. There's the slim chance that
I'll see sunlight again if another first-level decider wants a look before
automatic rejection time. The pile containing my cohorts and me is picked over
periodically, and usually I am returned home to Momma in my SASE with a
rejection slip. I am listed as dead and sent to the Potter's Field of
manuscripts. All the while, my parents eagerly await word of their beloved
offspring. The non-replies hurt most.
But wait! A publishing house
pronounces my plot fit, of sound meaning, and full of promising dollar signs.
Apparently, I also have enough luck and talent to get past first readers, editors,
marketing sages, and executive councils. And so…my creative parents are offered
a publishing house contract. I'm so excited I can feel the words pumping
through my sentences. Wow, a lowly member of the Manuscript family like me
being promoted to Book! And with covers, too!
When the initial excitement
wears down, I find that I have been sold on the block like some slave with
neither basic nor extended rights. I learn that I'll be indentured that way for
years to come. I'm to serve in darkness, not knowing my actual publication
date, nor any other milestone in my development. I have no approval in how my
appearance will be altered. Suddenly, e-mails and phone calls go unanswered.
Have I been forgotten? Or worse, lost? What has become of me?
One day, my text, clothed in
a fixed format, arrives for proofreading. My parents examine me line-by-line
and my faults are duly noted and transmitted back in record time. Weeks pass,
and an out-of-nowhere cover design turns up. Not exactly what I had in mind,
but I can live with it. Hey, I've got an ISBN number and a price tag now. And
my parents' names, they're in large print. That's got to mean something. Still
no publication date yet.
That is, until a package
finally finds its way to the front door. Undressing me from my plain brown
wrappings, my parents find a revelation within. I have my arty covers and
hundreds of printed pages. I am dedicated and acknowledged as well. I am truly
Book!
ROSEMARY AND LARRY MILD,
cheerful partners in crime, coauthor mystery, suspense, and fantasy fiction.
Their popular Hawaii novels, Cry Ohana and its sequel Honolulu Heat,
vibrate with island color, local customs, and exquisite scenery. Also by the
Milds: The Paco and Molly Murder Mysteries: Locks and Cream Cheese, Hot
Grudge Sunday, and Boston Scream Pie. And the Dan and Rivka Sherman
Mysteries: Death Goes Postal, Death Takes A Mistress, and Death
Steals A Holy Book. Plus Unto the Third Generation, A Novella of the
Future, and three collections of wickedly entertaining mystery short stories—Murder,
Fantasy, and Weird Tales; The Misadventures of Slim O. Wittz,
Soft-Boiled Detective; and Copper and Goldie, 13 Tails of Mystery and
Suspense in Hawai‘i.
ROSEMARY, a graduate of Smith
College and former assistant editor of Harper’s, also delves into her
own nonfiction life. She published two memoirs: Love! Laugh! Panic! Life
With My Mother and the acclaimed Miriam’s World—and Mine, for the
beloved daughter they lost in the terrorist bombing of Pan Am 103 over
Lockerbie, Scotland. On her lighter side, Rosemary also writes award-winning
humorous essays, such as failing the test to get on Jeopardy; and
working for a giant free-spending corporation on a sudden budget: “No new
pencil unless you turn in the old stub.”
LARRY, who was only called
Lawrence when he’d done something wrong, graduated from American University in
Information Systems Management. In 2019 he published his autobiography, No
Place To Be But Here: My Life and Times, which traces his thirty-eight-year
professional engineering career from its beginning as an electronics technician
in the U.S. Navy, to a field engineer riding Navy ships, to a digital
systems/instrument designer for major Government contractors in the signal
analysis field, to where he rose to the most senior level of principal engineer
when he retired in 1993.
Making use of his past
creativity and problem-solving abilities, Larry naturally drifted into the
realm of mystery writing, where he also claims to be more devious than his
partner in crime and best love, Rosemary. So he conjures up their plots and
writes the first drafts, leaving Rosemary to breathe life into their characters
and sizzle into their scenes. A perfect marriage of their talents.
THE MILDS are active members
of Sisters in Crime where Larry is a Mister in Crime; Mystery Writers of
America; and Hawaii Fiction Writers. In 2013 they waved goodbye to Severna
Park, Maryland and moved to Honolulu, Hawaii, where they cherish quality time
with their daughters and grandchildren. When Honolulu hosted Left Coast Crime
in 2017, Rosemary and Larry were the program co-chairs for “Honolulu Havoc.”
Over a dozen worldwide trips
to Japan, China, Australia, New Zealand, Thailand, Cambodia, Burma, Great
Britain, France, Italy, Israel, Egypt, and more have wormed their way into
their amazing stories. In their limited spare time, they are active members of
the Honolulu Jewish Film Festival committee, where Larry is the statistician and
recordkeeper for their film ratings.
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