Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Awarded Submission

This letter is from the first and the last time I answered a call for submissions.

As I put the finishing touches on The Submission today, I thought about those two sentences – “the bio” – that go on the cover letter.  This is usually where you read about all of the places where the author’s work has been published and the awards they have received.  Somehow citing the e-book I was commissioned to write for an ocean safety website didn’t quite seem like the appropriate publishing achievement to mention.

I search my memory banks for something literary, some kind of something to put with my name.  And then I remember that William Saroyan Story Writing contest my senior year in high school.  That $100 savings bond.  Now that could be worthy!  It was an award after all, literary at that.  Never mind it came circa 1991.

As you can see, clearly posted here, I still have the congratulatory letter as my keepsake.  A memento of my prize.  Maybe this too, will be my first and last (better not lose it).

Win or lose, no matter.  I’m practicing submission.  Of course, winning’s always nice, but it’s not the point.  I shall submit to The Submission.  Bow in gratitude for all it taught me, mark my envelope appropriately and include a cover letter.  Submit.

I will not mention the Saroyan award.  Not even as a clever joke.  I’ll save my bragging rights for you.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

My Friend the White-Rumped Shama

 

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved

My friend, he comes at sunset.  Just like me, he enjoys his baths.  He dips in and splashes, shakes his feathers and turns a few circles.

This routine is the same every day.  When he’s done he’ll flit to the fence top, where he’ll perch and cast off droplets.  He dries his beak by wiping it swiftly on either side of the wooden fence.  And after a short flurry of fanning feathers – a few shivers –  the song begins.

Among the saffron-colored nasturtiums, rainbow prayer flags, and pink succulents, the Shama sings his end-of-day-song to the rosy sky.

It’s a friendly lilt, high notes in rolling patterns.  It makes you want to give it your own try.

It’s the bridge we have to know we hear each other.  My little whistle attempt.  He repeats the pattern.  Ever patient, he’ll give it to me again and again.  But so often the notes that squeeze through my lips can’t quite match his song.

If I pause long enough, he’ll stop the call and response and break out into his own long soliloquy.  Beautiful and happy, it’s an honoring of the day.  Just Shama in the papaya tree.  Fresh and clean and singing.