A Writer's Story

by Martin Green

A Writers Story (approx. 1,300 wds.)

The morning after he and his wife Sally returned from Ireland Paul Lerner went to his computer to check the e-mail that had accumulated during their absence. He didnt like what he saw. Over a spam-mails. One and only one f-ing e-mail about the book hed just self-published. Paul never used obscenity in his writing but frequently used the f-word when talking to himself. After all, hed grown up on the streets of New York.

On his website, created for him by the son who lived in Ireland, Paul described himself as a retiree/free-lance writer. Since his retirement from the State of California 15 years ago hed written for an alternative Sacramento newspaper, then for the local Sacramento paper, and now a column for a monthly "senior paper that went free of charge (the advertising paid for it) to the 5,000 households in his retirement community. The book was a collection of "Observations, the name of his column, for the past ten years. Before they left, the paper, with the cooperation of the editor, had run a front page story on Paul and his book. The story couldnt have been better, not surprising as Paul had written it himself. It closed with telling readers who were interested in his book to e-mail him and gave his e-mail address.

With what amounted to a full-page ad, Paul had expected a pretty good if not a great response when he returned. If only one percent of the 5,000 households were interested in his book, certainly not an unreasonable assumption, he should have gotten 50 responses. Instead, one f-ing e-mail.

After simmering down, he looked through his regular e-mails more closely, deleting most of them. Wait, here was an e-mail from the editor of one of the online magazines he wrote for, telling him that his short story would be in the next issue. After becoming a free-lance writer Paul had written some short stories a few had been published in "little magazines, more than a few had been rejected. Hed gotten tired of the process of typing up a story, then putting it in a large envelope, being sure to enclose a smaller stamped self-addressed envelope and then taking it to the post office to mail. Then, a few years ago, hed discovered online magazines. With an online magazine, or ezine, all you had to do was e-mail your story and with one click you were done. He now had almost 80 stories printed in ezines his goal was to reach 100.

After going through all of his regular e-mail Paul started deleting his "spam mail. . He was about to go through his usual deletion process when he stopped. He had a new "Observations coming up. He didnt want to spend any more time on it than he had to his readers, so-called, didnt deserve it. Hed dash off an "Observations on his spam-mail. It shouldnt take more than 10 or 15 minutes. Good.

Paul left his computer and went into the living room, where Sally was sorting through the mail that had come during the last three weeks, assisted by their big black-and-white cat Mickey, who was sprawled across her lap. "Ive put the bills in one pile and the junk in another, she said. "The magazines you can look through. Whats the matter?

Sally could always tell when he was upset. Paul told her about the almost total lack of response to his front page story. "Well, at least you got one, she said. "Thats better than nothing.

"Not much better. Its hopeless. I dont know why I even paid to have the book published.

"Its a nice looking book. And your picture on the cover looks good.

"Yeah. Paul had told himself that he wanted his columns in a book so that theyd be in a more permanent format than in ten years worth of newspapers. In the back of his mind though, like all writers, he also wanted people to read what he wrote. "Ill go through the bills and the mags. To himself, he said, "F- the book.

* * *

Later that week, Paul was in his lazy-boy chair, something hed missed during their trip, having his second cup of coffee after breakfast. Hed been tired all week but had slept all right the night before and thought he was just about over jet-lag. The trip back from Ireland, involving three airplanes, had been horrendous. He could still picture Sally and himself racing, if you could call it that, on their aged legs through the airport to get one of their connecting flights. Hed have to write an "Observations about that. Wait, he said to himself,, I dont even want to think about writing anything. Hed also been thinking about a short story, this after having read an obituary of a sportswriter hed known in the Army and then in San Francisco. To hell with that, too. Hed already done the "Observations piece on spam. It had taken him 15 minutes to write it. That was enough. Hed contacted the one person interested in his book and brought a copy over. He hadnt done much of anything else since Now hed get around to writing checks for all the bills that had piled up. As soon as he started, their cat Mickey sensed what he was doing and jumped on his lap to help.

That evening Paul and Sally went to a nearby restaurant for dinner with a group of a dozen or so friends. Paul had dubbed them the LEOs for Lets Eat Out. Paul was seated next to a couple who were relatively new to the group. The husband, Steve, turned out to be a big sports fan and had gone to Kezar Stadium in Golden Gate Park to watch the old 49ers play during the same years in the late 50s that Paul had. They passed the old 49er names back and forth: Y.A. Tittle, Hugh McCillhaney, Billy Wilson, Joe Arenas, Leo Nomillini. Paul asked Steve if he remembered a sports writer-and he named the one whose obituary hed come across. Steve said he didnt know it.

Paul and Sally got back to their house around nine it had been a long dinner. Sally watched some television. Paul finished the last of the magazines that had come while they were in Ireland, Mickey in his lap. They watched the ten oclock news. Paul got into bed and kissed Sally good night. The story about the San Francisco sportswriter Paul had known started writing itself in his head. One of the pleasure of retirement is having a second cup of coffee after breakfast. I was doing this while reading the morning newspaper, the Sacramento Bee, a sad shadow of its former self, as, I suppose, am I. When youre of a certain age, as I am, you start to read the obituary pages and in time are bound to come across the name of a contemporary you know or once knew. There was a small item on the death of a noted San Francisco sportswriter, Ralph Foxbridge (where had that come from?), 75 years old, the same age as my own. A little chill went through me as my first thought of course was of my own mortality. Id once know Ralph Foxbridge pretty well, hadnt thought of him in years, and now he was gone.

The story went on to tell about meeting Ralph in the Army in Germany and then again in San Francisco and then what happened after that. Eventually, it trailed off and Paul fell asleep. After breakfast the next morning, he sat himself at his computer and typed up as much as he could remember. Then he got his second cup of coffee, sat in his lazy-boy chair with Mickey in his lap and finished reading the morning paper, remembering to look at the obituary page. Well, he said to Mickey, whether I want it or not, I guess Im still a f writer.

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A Writer's Story