May 11, 2020

Almost a Writer

I wrote my first short story when I was 20. It was called The Card Game. It was about a poker game. The kicker was it was being played by a group of men as they waited for Moses to come down from the mountain. My father loved that story. I read it the other day. I think it still holds up.

In my early 20s I wrote a mystery novel entitled Out of the Mouths of Babes. I sent a synopsis and the first three chapters to 15 New York City book publishers. I got 14 rejections. My uncle offered me a job as a paint salesman based in Toronto. I had no other job prospects and a degree in Political Science. I said yes. On the day I said yes, I received a letter from Walker and Company. They were interested in my book. They wanted to see the rest of my manuscript. I drove to Toronto thinking I would soon be a published writer living in Greenwich Village. At least, it was what I told women in bars.

Six months later, a letter arrived from Walker. They were going to pass. They thought it was great. They assured me I would have no problem getting it placed elsewhere.

They were wrong.

I became a paint salesman.

It was horrible but it wasn’t bad. I played tennis, there were parties, I traveled, there was the occasional girlfriend.

It wasn’t that bad.

One of the girlfriends had a friend who had a friend at Summerhill Press. “Send them the manuscript.” I did. The phone rang. “We would like to publish your novel. We just need to sell the US paperback rights in order to make it work.” They were going to publish my novel. I didn’t really pay attention to the proviso. I should have. Summerhill wasn’t able to sell the American paperback rights.

I stopped writing.

I told women in bars that I was a paint salesman.

Am hazy with the timeline. I had a girlfriend. Broke up with her. We became good friends. I wanted her back. We were in Florida together one Christmas holidays. We held hands on the beach. On New Year’s Eve she ended up in the hot tub with a stock broker from Chicago. I was devastated.

On the plane back, I wrote a short story called Miami Beach Diaries. It was a little dark. It was a little bitter. But I was writing again.

I wrote a lot of short stories and sent them out to literary magazines. I got a lot of rejections.

I wrote a story called Sisters. It was mostly a writing exercise because I wrote in the first person feminine. I sent it to a small Toronto-based literary magazine called McGill Street. They wrote me back. They wanted to publish my story. I met with one of their editors, Helen Walsh, at the Cafe Diplomatico on College Street, in order to go over the story. She brought a red pen. My manuscript had a lot of red on it. I did six rewrites. It was a good piece.

I started telling women in bars I was a writer again.

Helen called a few weeks later. She had bad news. The magazine had run out of money. They were going to fold. My story was not getting published.

I started telling women in bars I was a paint salesman again.

I called Helen and told her I didn’t know anything about publishing, but I knew a little about sales. “Maybe I could help.” She said, “Okay. Let’s meet at The Dip,” she will bring the rest of the gang.

So we met at the Diplomatico. They were a group of downtown-living, left-leaning bicycle-riding poets and writers. I was an uptown Jew with a Nissan Maxima and a fucking car phone. I had a few ideas. I could maybe sell advertising. They said okay. “Welcome to McGill Street.”

My story got published.

It was the only story I had ever published.

I had a girlfriend so couldn’t really tell women in bars.

McGill Street was fun. I kept writing stories. We had poetry readings at very cool venues. Sometimes my uptown friends and family would come to the readings. I read a story I had written called The Tattoo. It still holds up. My niece Rena says it is still her favorite.

In time, I went from selling ads to becoming the publisher. I brought in my friend Sue Tebbutt to do cover illustrations.

The magazine ran its course but I learned a lot about publishing.

I am hazy about the timeline.

At some point, I guess 26 years ago, my niece Samantha developed a nut allergy. I tried to buy her a book about it. But one didn’t exist. So I wrote it myself. I got Sue Tebbutt to illustrate it. It is called No Nuts For Me. It is the seminal work in the field.

Fuck you!

It is!

I came up with the idea to get the peanut butter companies to pay for it. My friend Hillary Firestone, may she rest in peace, worked in marketing for Kraft. She got me some money. Once Kraft was on board, I got Skippy and P&G.

I stopped selling paint.

I stopped writing short stories.

I launched a company specializing in producing children’s books for cause-related marketing.

That company is called Tumbleweed Press.

I wrote more children’s books. Some really good ones. We sold to big pharmaceuticals.

In time, Tumbleweed became TumbleBooks.

It is a story for another time.

I am hazy about the timeline.

At some point, I started writing again. I wrote a piece called The Stories We Tell. It is about memories and about telling stories about stories. I sent it to family and friends. They said nice things.

I liked the story. I found a voice.

I wrote more stories. And then some more.

I told a lot of stories. I became a storyteller.

I am a little hazy about the timeline but at some point a year ago I decided to put those stories to paper.

Almost the Truth is my debut story collection. It is a book of memoirs, essays, and short stories. It is the culmination of 40 years of writing and storytelling.

Most of the time, not always, I reread my stories and I like them. I like the voice. It is the type of writing I like to read. I don’t know why. It just is.

I like being a writer. I like how it makes me feel. I like making people laugh. I like making them feel.

I don’t go to bars anymore.

The end.