A Writer’s Saturday Night

“Every man’s memory is his private literature.”

Aldous Huxley

Today we spent time reading, eating Mexican, drinking margaritas, driving under pink Arizona clouds. These things helped to lessen the impact of yet one more form agent inquiry rejection letter. This one truly stung. “Dear Writer,” it began. Dear Writer? But I gave you my name. I gave you my story. I let threads of my heart fall across your desk. And you gave me Dear Writer?

Ah, but such is the business of writing. I’m collecting the names of best-selling authors who’ve suffered the pang of rejection after rejection. Their number is growing.

After today’s letter, I vowed to double, no … triple my efforts to obtain a worthy agent. I remember reading to my youngest a wonderful children’s story entitled, “Barney Beagle.” The story follows Barney Beagle who wonders if each boy who enters the pet store to buy a dog is “HIS” boy. It took a number of boys who each fell in love with other dogs before Barney Beagle at last found HIS boy.

So, I’m looking for MY agent. The one who loves my story even more than I think possible. I’ve come to the conclusion (after two margaritas) that I might be the human likeness of Barney Beagle!

Regardless those “Dear Writer” letters, the story of my fictional character, Lillie Claire Glidden, is beautiful and provocative … and I’ll not give up on her. She would do no less for me. We’ve intertwined our stories until our memory has become our private literature. Lillie Claire is every woman who wishes to leave a legacy to her children. I’m no less a woman.

May I wish all a happy Saturday night.


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