Posts Tagged ‘freedom’

My Endless Summer

August 7, 2017

Does anyone remember the 1966 movie The Endless Summer? Two surfers travel around the world, northern and southern hemispheres to surf the year round. What freedom! What hedonistic pleasure! Ah, the 60s.

Now the other day I was creeping a U-boat from produce to the backroom through tourists who either had no awareness there could be anyone else in the world or who looked at me with that “I’m not moving till I’m ready” glare. And, of course, answering questions: “Where in the hell did you put the bacon!?” “Uh, in the meat department.”

“This summer is endless,” I said to myself. Then it hit me. The Endless Summer. It’s a horror movie!

"Yes?" - photo of mountain goat by Bernie Smetzer

“Yes?” – photo by Bernie Smetzer

Getting Published

October 27, 2013

Copyright © 2013 by Mike Smetzer

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I spent this morning organizing my poems, stories, and essays to send out to magazines. I updated my Word files, clicked on Poets & Writers in my Favorites list, opened the classifieds and then the little magazine database and began noting the most auspicious listings.

It is a ritual I have performed since I was an undergraduate, whenever enough happy and unhappy responses have piled up in my inbox. Pondering those listings and then the simple mechanics of formatting the letters and attachments, well, it takes a lot of time, and it reminds me that, after all these years, I am still struggling for recognition. That depresses me.

They say when anything you do depresses you, you need to examine your behavior. Something probably needs to change. I have decided that I need to change two things: my voice and my expectations.

I find that I have shifted inside and my old voice seems strange to me. What I am doing when I write is not really as important as I used to believe. My writing is no more sacred nor profound than anything else I do in life, and neither are the problems I write about. I am a good writer, of course, but I am also good at cleaning out a cooler at work, and the two are pretty much equal as accomplishments.

I also realize that I am probably much happier being unimportant. It means that I am free from all that baggage of pretense and seriousness that important writers have. I don’t have to impress anyone. Which means I don’t have to follow literary fashions or write up to academic “standards.” I can write as myself, in as common a voice as I like.

Which leads to my new expectations. I now expect and hope to be an amateur writer for the rest of my life. I don’t need to be in Paris Review or have a book published by Graywolf Press. I don’t expect to hold a creative writing chair at some university or even teach a class or two at a community college. I don’t expect to make my living off royalties and readings. I simply expect to sit down in the evenings after supper and write. I simply expect to be free.

I’ve had some grand visions of myself as a famous writer. But famous writers often seem trapped in the aura of their success and by the expectations of their followers. I have always been thankful to those editors who accepted my work. Perhaps I should also be thankful to those who rejected me, especially at crucial moments when I might have crossed over to become a professional. I don’t need to march down a paved path following one literary flag or another, not even my own. I can wander, unkempt and little seen through the fields and forests, wherever my old legs take me.