by Robert Markland Smith.
I live in a northern country and had been writing for forty-five years. We never see exciting things in our climate, unless you can call a snowy blizzard exciting in winter. The birds we see in our cities are run-of-the-mill sparrows and pigeons; occasionally, there are crows that cover the sky in flocks, with their call that sounds like a curse.
Yes, I had written and written, and got nowhere. The fact is that I don’t have stupendous talent or insight; nevertheless, I persisted. I published a hundred poems or so in magazines, little-known literary magazines nearby. I realized very soon this was not going to pay the rent. So I took courses in translation at a local university and became a civil servant. This was drudgery, I thought, and I kept changing jobs, hoping there would be a payoff. Meanwhile, I kept writing and once in a while, publishing a piece here and there. I even landed a grant or two, about ten years ago, and believed there was promise in my writing career. I could see the pot of gold at the end of the proverbial rainbow – but nothing came of it. I had to keep translating to make both ends meet. Sometimes, there would be a big government contract – but then, after a few weeks, the revisors were not satisfied with my mediocre work, and they would assign the work to someone else, who could do the work better and faster.
This went on for many, many years. I began self-publishing. One book of poems, and then another. Then some stories. The first time I produced a vanity publication, I thought I had arrived – until I found out that the authorities who distribute grant money, as well as the critics, pay no attention to self-published work. Still, I hoped to be discovered. Then, out of the blue, my desktop publisher, the fellow who produced my vanity publications, passed away. He died of cancer. I thought this was the end of the road. By now I had been writing for forty years.
And then, I met Roger. He worked at a government clinic where I was followed for my heart condition and other ailments. He had published real books of poetry, and wanted to promote me. So he told me that my self-publishing years were over. He laid it on me: ‘‘Here is what you do.’’ He told me to put together a manuscript, and mail it out to local publishers. He was sure I would make it, and finally produce a real book with royalties. So I took his advice. I tried. I mailed out a dozen copies of my manuscript. And then I waited. And waited. In came a first rejection slip. And a few weeks later, another. And that was it. I never heard any other response.
And this is where I stood a few months ago. One day, I thought of approaching important publishing houses in the United States and trying my luck. I did a google for a list of publishers, and found one. And I wrote a covering letter. I emailed it out as required to half a dozen presses. I waited, and even forgot about it.
One day, several weeks ago, I checked my email at random. There was a reply. It read, ‘‘Dear Mr. Smith, Thank you so much for your query letter. I am sorry for the delayed response. Of course, I am interested in reading your material. Please send me a story cut and pasted in the body of an email. I will respond as soon as I can. Best regards,’’ etc. For twenty minutes, I was ecstatic. Seventh heaven. I immediately emailed this person my best work. And I didn’t wait – I told 45 of my friends and acquaintances about my impending success. And then, suddenly, I came down! I realized I might have enemies, people who might be jealous if I made it as a writer. And my wife came home shortly afterwards and she had both feet on the ground. Nevertheless, I kept secretly hoping. Hoping beyond hope.
Several days went by now. Absolutely all my friends wrote back and wished me luck. I knew it – this was meant to be! I was already counting my royalties.
And then, about two weeks ago, I received an email from the publisher who had seemed interested. He wrote me to tell me they were going bankrupt and had to cancel all engagements. As I read the email, I felt a pain in my chest. It gradually got worse. After two hours, it felt as though my lungs were on fire, and there was pressure on my chest. I couldn’t breathe anymore, and felt panic approaching. I phoned for an ambulance. They came with paramedics within thirteen minutes. I felt total anxiety. They said it might be a heart attack and asked what I had been doing when this started. I explained. They gave me nitro to breathe, and then oxygen, through a tube that went into my nostrils. Plus they gave me several aspirins to chew. They were working fast and by now, I was in the ambulance and we were on our way to the closest hospital. Once we arrived, the ambulance drivers told the admitting nurse it appeared to be an infarctus. They put me on a gurney and wheeled me into the emergency ward. Suddenly, there were five nurses and a doctor around my bed.
‘‘What were you doing at the time your pain started?’’ they kept asking, and how I felt, on a scale of one to ten.
I told them I was in shock. And the pain slowly subsided and after more nitro and more aspirin, and more oxygen, it was just a slow ache.
I was facing a window in the ward. There were huge billowy clouds of pure white against a serene blue sky, and there were tree branches. And I saw something I had only ever seen in picture books – there was a cardinal, that flew out of nowhere on to a branch of the tree. It had bright red and orange-coloured wings. It fluttered a bit. And then it bounced on to another branch. What on earth was it doing in this climate? I had never seen a real cardinal. All in all the magnificent bird appeared in the window for thirty seconds, and then – it disappeared.
I have never seen a cardinal since. It was sheer magic, for thirty seconds.
Finally, I had an angioplasty and began the slow process of recovery from the heart attack. I have stopped writing.