About a week ago Chris O’Byrne, publisher, emailed me to say he would be “honored” to publish the manuscript he had in hand, “This Mobius Strip of Ifs,” an anthology/compilation of essays written over three decades. “Honored” stood out for me as that is not exactly publisher lingo. When I shared my surprise with him in a follow up note, he told me that my writing was “impressive.” So before any contract is signed I have been nourished as to my capacity as a writer. I had spent maybe a year going over the selection of the essays, proofing them, rearranging them, for sequence, I have learned, is essential in laying out a book of short stories or essays, among other writerly things.
I had planned to self-publish the book but submitted the manuscript after reading about his press in an email sent out to writers by Harvey Stanbrough, poet. I had no expectations whatsoever; indeed, after this try I would go out and get it published by myself. Serendipitously, not looking for a publisher and having one suggested to me led to all this personal excitement.
It has been two weeks since last O’Byrne wrote me, saying that after a conference he was at ended he would forward contracts to me. I have not received them only throwing doubt into the pot and I have decided to give him until the end of the month before I respond. He moves, as we all do, in his own time. Since this is the first time I have been accepted for publication, delays create all kinds of mischief in mind, given that there is a whole slew of questions I need ask as to editing, publication date, cover and format. However, I’ve had two books percolating and on track for the last year. I just sent off for editing, “Working Through the Holocaust,” my final say on the Holocaust through short stories, of which eight have been published (!) in 2010. David Herrle, editor of Subtletea.com,. and a poet in his own right, will take on the editorial task as he is sympatico with my style and themes. It has been a creative year or so, the first for me in that I was working on two different kinds of books. If my health holds out, I may see four books published in a decade — The i Tetralogy, Down to a Sunless Sea, This Mobius Strip of Ifs, and Working Through the Holocaust. Two books of short stories, one major novel and a book of essays.
While this was going on I discovered medically that plaque had built up in my carotid artery to the degree I am at risk and there is an issue with my heart, all brought about by my inability to lose weight and my high blood sugar countas a pre-diabetic. It isn’t that I haven’t tried to maintain my health, but the dice have been tossed and I am losing out. Not only are we abstractly terminal, but I have been given notice that I, personally, Mathias B. Freese, am terminal, like Luther’s theses nailed to the church’s wooden door. Don’t ask how I am doing? I don’t know. Are you depressed? I don’t know. What floats through my consciousness is the time given to me, although I am doing everything medically — pills, tests and more tests, losing weight at Weight Watchers, working out three times weekly at a local gym with a trainer — in order to lose the weight. I am told that meds will ease or attentuate the situation, but that losing weight may very well alleviate or reverse it all. The task is mine alone. What status is there to know you now have a cardiologist on your team?
I am surprised I’m not in a corner fetally mewling. I suppose after Rochelle’s death and Caryn’s suicide some part of me doesn’t give a shit and some part of me wants to see the next day — you know, just futzing about. I am not scared, but alarmed; I kid the doctor and others about my imminent demise, but that is solely defensive, like raising your hands before your face when dad wants to wallop you one. I am trying to fight back but the news this week has me somewhat addled, befuddled and saddened by a life not without some honor but nevertheless one that has been unsuccessful, whatever that means. Well, it means the standards I have held for myself have shifted over the years and are more stringent yet more compassionate. I am less than what I could have been, so saith the stalk of wheat as the scythe cuts it down. I wish I had been a better father. I was good husband. My son and daughter know me not. I cannot access their true selves. It is a kind of parental failure, I believe, on my part. I grieve more about that than I do about my diagnosis which is not too good.
I don’t think I am scared, but somewhat morose; I don’t perseverate over the whys and why nots, but feel this is all part of the plan that began with my birth. Jane is stalwart, optimistic and she fills up my glass which is always half empty; no, she is not Mary Poppins but gives me a fair optimism to combat my general darkness. I have told her, quite melodramatically, but seriously, if it all goes south, to make sure the next two books are published. Whether they will be read or not, who cares. They represent me, come from the loins of my mind and that is essential to whom I am. They are patrimony whether children or not read them. They are the product of a hard birth.
So, Red Willow Digital Press, act more quickly. I would like to see my first published book before I croak.
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