I was reading Anne's House of Dreams last night and feeling sentimental. I was sad that Captain Jim died and I was thinking fondly of adolescence and reading the Anne books for the first time.
My train of thought chugged onward to that precarious stage of late teens. The moments left to prove that you were Something Special were ticking away. Come an evening in May, with everyone in matching red robes, the rest of what you could accomplish in life might show you were bright, but you would never again get to be a prodigy.
My set of friends longed greatly for prodigy. The forces in motion in those days gave the wordy types of us a brand new outlet. A dream of recognition. There was a new big thing on the horizon that would separate the average from the special. It was the 'zine.
There was a new place in town called Kinko's and everyone had a personal computer. A teenager could type anything she wanted and cut and past it into a 5x7 booklet. The truly special could add their own pen and ink illustrations. Then they could drive to Kinkos and make copies. The average price for distribution was $2. With bated breath we hoped that our 'zines would stand out in the crowd. That local independent booksellers would keep them on their counters. Or--could we dare hope--sell them from the rack with with other magazines.
Armed with a personal computer less powerful than the phone in my purse right now, a large and loud photocopier that lived in the basement of my parents house, a pair of scissors and scotch tape I was going to join the fray. My friend and I met in the room lovingly called "the dungeon" to hash out our own 'zine. I wanted to call it Zilpah. A title that would show the world right off who we were. Young, clever, well read Christian grrrls.
My friend wanted to call it Purple.
Nothing wrong with Purple. But it made apparent the differences in out literary ambitions. My 'zining was over before it began
The days when I could have been a prodigy slipped away. I mourned my lost potential as any self-centered teenager should.
My twenties are not much more than a shadow now. My husband has been classifying me with the "in their 30's crowd" for two years now. (Guess how old he is?)
I was just wondering...is there a steam-punk 'zine movement out there, fueled by sentimental 30-somethings and with their scissors and scotch tape?
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4 comments:
I know EXACTLY what you mean about "prodigy." All my life people have told me what a brilliant writer I am, what promise I had. But now I'm almost 34. Sure, it's still young enough for people to say, "She was so young!" if I die now. But if I ever publish any of the books in my head, it's old enough to be no longer interesting to readers. It means (gulp) my writing will have to be judged on face value alone! Ack! The horror!
Ack! the horror indeed! That's sort of why I am posting bits of the book on the wee little blog. Only Daniel and my mom have read any of it and they are obliged to say it is readable. I am very curious to know what other folks might think.
On publishing, we could go the way of Helen Hooven Santmyer and publish at 80 something. You can sell a lot of books by being outside the *normal age*.
Being published is such an amazing dream until I go to Barnes and Noble and see all of the books on the half off shelf...That usually knocks the wind out of my sails of ambitions.
I know just what you mean. When I'm alone with paper and pen, it's easy to think like a writer, as though at any moment beauty will stream from the nib instead of ink. But then at the bookstore--or online--I'm like, You fool! You have nothing to say that hasn't been said a hundred thousand times before.
And yet.... and yet... something calls, something compels. After all, it hasn't been said yet by ME, right? The arrogance! The anguish! The death-grip pull of the Muse.
I'm proud of you (I don't mean that condescendingly) for posting your work on your blog. It's a very risky, painful, vulnerable thing for you to do. I for one will be reading faithfully. Thank you for sharing your courage.
Thank you for the kind words! On the one hand I am intimidated by the idea that no one will come around to read it and then that people will come and read it! Funny how both ideas make me nervous.
I really appreciate your vote of support. : )
Traci
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