The Story of a Story

“The Perfect Daiquiri” was the first thing I wrote that I felt good about. It came late — I was in my mid thirties. Up to then I hadn’t done much writing — just an occasional dabbling. Which is a good thing, because I would write no foolish juvenilia. And I had been reading top notch fiction from the time I was twelve. I knew what I liked, and I felt I could write what others would like too.

But it had to get into print. So I started to send my story out — this was the time of sending manuscripts with a SASE and a letter of introduction. My letters of introduction had no bells and whistles — no MFA, no names to drop. 
I accumulated impersonal form rejections. Did they read the damn thing or just process it? Cynicism began to set in.
I lived near a university that published a quarterly magazine of some prestige. So I drove there, intending to hand my precious story to the editor. I thought a personal touch might give me a leg up — that at least “PD” would get read. I didn’t know the man — I knew no one at the university. A bit of research had told me that Tom (all names have been changed, except mine) was a professor in the creative writing program and a published author.
I arrived, and a young man at the desk of the English Department told me that Tom had left about fifteen minutes ago and that he was off for the summer. My disappointment must have showed, so he told me to send the manuscript to Tom’s home. I protested —  he was on vacation, that would be an invasion of his privacy. No, no, the young man said — we send him manuscripts in the summer — he still does work at home. 
He wrote Tom’s address on a slip of paper. “Send it to him.”
So I did. He was about a twenty minute drive away from where I lived; we were, in a sense, neighbors. Surely this would warrant the fair-minded reading that I wanted.
I waited about month or so, and then received my manuscript in the SASE. It came with a form rejection attached. Not one personal word.

Years later the local library was putting on a federally sponsored program in which professors from the nearby university would give weekly seminars. I signed up for the one on literature, which was to be given by Robert.
On the second meeting, during a break, I wandered by Robert’s desk and noticed some vintage paperbacks. I love these old paperbacks, with their lurid covers. I struck up a conversation with Robert. At the next meeting I brought some oldies from my house. In the following few weeks we talked about books during breaks. We got to be on friendly terms, though after the seminar was over we lost contact. 
In the interim between sending the copy of “PD” to Tom and attending the seminar I had a story accepted by Third Coast (real name, bless them), and I had made some friends — three women who were writers. They all eventually gravitated to the MFA program at the university, and, being personable and attractive, got on good terms with both Tom and Robert. When Robert learned that Barb lived in the same town as I did, he asked her whether she knew someone named Phillip. She certainly did! (I got this question/response sequence from Barb.) He asked her if I happened to be a writer. He certainly is! Robert said he suspected that I was, and he asked if it was possible for her to bring him some of my work. 
I picked out three stories, one of which was “The Perfect Daiquiri.” Before giving them to Barb I’m sure I read over all three, and probably made some cosmetic changes. Drop a modifier, change a semicolon to a period — that kind of thing. But I’m also sure the characters and the plot and structure were intact. I work hard and long on writing a story before deciding it’s completed.
Robert told Barb that he  liked them — a lot — and asked if it would be OK with me if he passed them on to Tom (who was still editor of the university quarterly). I, of course, agreed. 
A few weeks later I got an acceptance letter from Tom. He wrote how much he admired “PD.” It was a beautiful letter of praise. He had no suggestions for revision.
I wrote back thanking him for accepting the story for publication.
But then I made a mistake. One evening at dinner (and drinks) I told all three of my women friends that the same story had received a form rejection from Tom years ago. I certainly didn’t want this info to circulate — why would I alienate Tom? But, alas, one of these ladies must have blabbed it to someone at the university, and the comment eventually got to Tom. (I suspect a bit of academic vindictiveness came into play.) Though he never contacted me, I knew he had learned of what I had said because he told someone (who told my friend) that, yes, he remembered the story. But, he said, it had been in a much rougher form. From his response it was obvious that he had been put in a defensive mode.
It hadn’t been in a “much rougher form.” Those “cosmetic changes” I probably made were minor. The story was the same one I had sent him. But, even if I had done a bit of revision, why — if it was so good now — didn’t it deserve a few words of encouragement?
When I got the journal with my story, I was shocked and crestfallen. What I had worked so hard to get just right had been retyped and was full of typos, misspellings, etc. A disgrace, verging (in my mind) on the unreadable. I wondered why it was treated so sloppily.
Last note. Tom told Barb that he had received a letter from someone on the West Coast who saw a possible movie in the story. I found this hard to believe, partly because I didn’t think that anyone who would bother to plow through all the errors. But I told Barb that I’d like to get in contact with this person. Barb returned to Tom’s office, and he looked around a bit for the letter but couldn’t find it. He never found it. Did it exist? Something else to wonder about.
When I recently created a blog with my stories I reread them. And a thought emerged. I had always thought of “PD” in terms of the first person narrator — it’s from his perspective that we follow what happens to Boy Stanton. But, if the events were told from Boy’s point-of-view — as he experienced them — it could be a movie. One starring a young Robert Redford (he was young at the time it first appeared).

You can read “The Perfect Daiquiri,” in its pristine form, at Eleven Stories. Leave a comment — it matters to writers to know that their work is read and, hopefully, appreciated.