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I can’t get no recognition.

I take that back. Indeed, I get plenty of “recognition” (*a.) in this town. That is I am repeatedly recognized by fellow residents who hail me with a hearty I KNOW YOU!

Followed by assorted snippets from the following:

YOU. With the preternaturally-pink hair and psychedelic get-ups walking with your nose in a book all the time my God aren’t you afraid you’ll trip better you should read during your so-called “run” when you’re barely moving your feet anyway my God you look ten days past due to take up residency in Forestdale cemetery that you limp by panting so pathetically my God why don’t you give it up already and take a stroll downtown to the nearest salon and tell them how about taking down the scare-hair ten tones or so and while you’re so conveniently close to the shops get yourself a dignified wardrobe you look ridiculous at your age at any age for that matter clashing vintage acid-green on electric blue.

So yeah, I get plenty of recognition in one sense (*a.). What I can’t get is Recognition (*b.) much less RECOGNITION (*c).

I want Recognition as a writer. That is, a writer worth the reading. I want the pieces I write to be read. (Please. Money is no object. Meaning, I’m not above bribery!)

Seriously, what I mean to say is that money is not my objective. I don’t aspire to the Best-Seller List. Or even to the two-for-five bargain bin. I’ll guarantee 100-percent off the virtual list price to any interested reader. Any takers?

Thus far, alas, no. I put about a hundred of my pieces online and invited family and friends to come-on-down-The-Price-Is-Right! As expected, I got a few non-committed one-time hit-and-runners, a couple of non-committal non-responses, and several sincerely polite compliments on what they skimmed-for-now-will-definitely-read-when-they-get-around-to-it.

Given the underwhelming response to my efforts of self-promotion, I’m thinking that the best way to accomplish Recognition is by invoking the powers of Capital-cousin RECOGNITION—which would entail, say, occasional publication as a featured contributor to the town weekly. Out of many thousands, a couple of dozen people are bound to read my column.

Which is a dozen-and-twelve more readers than I have now.

Sounds like a plan? Sounds like a plan-IN-MY-DREAMS!  I contacted the Melrose Free Press, The Melrose Weekly, and the Malden Observer asking for permission to submit and to whom. No response.

My friends encouraged me to GO BOLD. I emailed the most-likely-to-be-appropriate contacts and appended four amusingly-relatable-and-utterly-inoffensive pieces.

No response. I’ll never know if they ignored my work too or just me.

It’s hard not to lose hope. I sustain a shred by reminding myself that my writer friend Virginia Ruane didn’t get her career as a columnist going until seven years ago, when she was 86. She has a huge following—fan mail, public gushing, the works. So, if I can manage to hold on for another 25 years, I too may have a shot at fame.

Regardless, I console myself meanwhile with the delusion of posthumous glory. Indeed, if I had to choose between temporal celebrity and eternal regard, I’d take the latter over fifteen minutes—even fifty years—of fame. Even though I wouldn’t be around to enjoy it, I’d take comfort in the certainty of my “life-after-death” (See Loose Ends, appended.)

For now—and for later—I’ll just keep on writing. Writing. And, intermittently, begging.

 

*rec·og·ni·tion*   https://www.dictionary.com/browse/recognition

(a.)……the state of being recognized.

(b.) the acknowledgment of achievement, service, merit, etc.

(c.) the expression of (b.) in the form of some token of appreciation

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Loose Ends                 Elizabeth Emerald   2/21/17

I write; ergo: I am a writer, published or not.

Thus far: not. Published or not: I want my work to survive. To survive me. 

I believe – I hope! – that my “consciousness” will die when I do. In consolation for extinction pending, I would like to think that I will be fondly remembered by many people for many years. 

Be that as it may – or may not – I want my work to survive even beyond those mortal memories, which cessation in sum marks my “second death.”

I want my work to live in perpetuity:  to be passed, mind-to-mind, in infinite generation, regardless of how far the mind-of-the-moment is removed from that of the author.

Notwithstanding the prospect of my death-twice-over – that is, of-myself-and-all-the-selves-who-knew-me – I shall stoically sustain that ego blow, so long as I can rest assured that my work will live forever.

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My letter of solicitation:
 

Mr. Tenorio:

I was told to contact you regarding submissions to the print version of the Melrose Free Press and the Malden Observer.

Any spare room for a guest contributor?  I'm an aspiring wit (half-way there) seeking the opportunity to amuse as many people as possible.

I have no pretensions of fame and fortune (thus am I spared much disappointment).

I write for my pleasure and for that of my readers. I aim to elicit knowing nods and aahs amidst the peals of laughter or inaudible chuckles.

It's been working for me so far within the confines of my self-dubbed "Writers' Block Party," which convenes weekly at the Malden Senior Center. My fellow workshoppers have urged--or, at least, politely encouraged--me to share the dubious fruits of my imagination with a wider, unwitting, audience.

Anybody there willing to lend me an ear, preferably both? Perhaps an eye or two?

Anything?

Thank you for your indulgence.

I've attached (text also appended below) four of my takes on universal tendencies toward clutter in particular, as well as procrastination and imperfection in general. Plenty more where these came from. [for him; I spared you extra reading]

Cheers.

Elizabeth Emerald