Publishing?

To publish or not to publish.   That is the question.
I contacted a publisher about a month ago-the first time I have ever done so.  All three of my previous novels have been self-published affairs, but I wanted to gauge the interest in the traditional publishing world, so I contacted a small publishing firm on the east coast.  They surprised me with an extremely prompt reply which was both favorable and unfavorable at the same time.

The publisher gave me some constructive criticism and told me if I was willing to rewrite part of the sample I had sent to him, that they would like to look at it again.  I thanked him sincerely and set about adding onto the prologue and changing the first chapter.  A week later I sent it to him and...haven't heard a thing since.  No acknowledgement of having received the resubmission and no response to my followup email three weeks later asking if he had had a chance to look at the longer sample I sent to him.

Now, I asked myself why I have received no word and, of course, several thoughts ran through my head: his team hated it, and couldn't be bothered with sending a response back to me, they just haven't had the chance to go through it, lost it, the publisher died, they were insulted by the way I sent it and haven't bothered to respond out of spite, or they're continuing to evaluate it.

I've considered the possibility that they're probably not interested and maybe just don't want to communicate anymore.   I think that may be rude or discourteous, but maybe they're just caught up in a busy time of the year and haven't had the time to respond.

Anyway, I've decided to send it out to at least a dozen more publishers and see if there may be some interest somewhere.  Maybe I will practice what Grant Blackwood called "irrational optimism" when seeking traditional publication.

If you never try, you never succeed.

Billy Bobtail

Billy lowered his rifle and listened to the echo of his cry.  This is how my real fathers must have felt, he thought, as he basked in the brilliance of the evening sky.  His eyes flashed with confidence and his muscles tensed.  He had never felt as alive as he was at this moment, nor as purposeful.  I will find these men and give them what my fathers would have if they were alive.  

He breathed several deep breaths, left the deer path, and trekked to the east.  No longer concerned about traps, Billy was sanguine as he stepped through the brush, over logs, and ducked beneath low-hanging pine boughs.  Minutes later, carrying the rifle loosely, it caught upon a bush and was pulled from his hand.  He stopped to retrieve it, then changed his mind.  I don’t need it.  

Billy stood tall, removed his shirt, and pressed forward, leaving the rifle to rest on the earth.  He walked.  The stream lay before him in the moonlight, twenty yards across and a swiftly flowing current.  There would be no avoiding this.  Billy fashioned a walking stick for balance and stepped into the rushing water.  

The power of the rapids tore at his legs as he waded.  He tried using the stick as a balancing tool but found the riverbed was slippery, adding to the difficulty of his task.  A boulder lay a few feet away, nearly covered by the swirling rush of water.  He decided to reach for it, but his foot slipped on the greasy bottom and the current whisked him off his feet.  Billy lost his stick, soon finding himself bobbing up and down and swallowing water as he was rushed downstream.  

Gasping and spitting water as soon as it rushed into his mouth, he finally found a handhold near shore; a root sticking out from a massive white pine.  He grabbed onto it, exhausted, then pulled himself onto the riverbank.  Only now did he notice the mosquitoes as they formed a cloud around his head.  The incessant buzzing would have driven him crazy even a day ago, but not now.  He sat motionless, thinking about his forefathers.  How did they survive such torture?  His hands reached down into the embankment, his fingers sinking into the mud.  Enclosing his fingers around the mire, he brought it up and spread the slimy mixture to his face.  He reached into the muck several more times, bringing it up and spreading it evenly across all facets of his face, neck, arms, back and chest.  

When he was finished, the mosquitoes no longer troubled him.  The body armor of mud had done the trick, allowing him to survive the onslaught and preserve his sanity.  Before he continued his hunt, a satisfied grunt emanated from his lips as he admired his own ingenuity. 

Now that he had a measure of comfort in his new skin, Billy picked up his pace, determined to find his quarry.  He glided easily through the sparse underbrush, throwing an occasional glance through the upper reaches of the red and white pines.  He, like Gabe, could use the stars to navigate.  It was the one skill his real father had ever taught him.  He remembered the words so distinctly:  The easiest way  for finding the North Star is by finding the ‘Plough’ a group of seven stars.  It’s known as the ‘Big Dipper’ to the whites and the ‘saucepan’ to many others. Next you find the ‘pointer’ stars, these are the two stars that water would run off if you tipped up your ‘dipper’. The North Star will always be five times the distance between these two pointers in the direction that they point away from the pan.  True north lies directly under this star.

Angus

The searing pain in Angus’s calf was unbearable.  The sweat rolled off him in rivulets, down his face, neck, back, groin; anywhere a pathway existed.  He knew it wasn’t the heat making him sweat like he was stuck inside a furnace.  It had to be the wound; it was infected.  Of course, how could it not be, he thought.  He had hobbled at least a mile through the woods on the same deer trail as the one they came in on, he thought.  But, to add to his troubles, he was probably lost, because he should have arrived back at the campsite by now.  He didn’t know what he would do once he got there, probably just get in the canoe and try to run into someone, anyone that could help him get the medical care he needed. 

Through a break in the trees he thought he caught a glimpse of the lake.  He quickened his pace and stumbled forward, falling in the process and smashing his cheek into a boulder.  The impact sent a jarring pain through his cheekbone and into the back of his head.  He couldn’t tell if they were tears streaming from his eyes or sweat, but at least he didn’t lose consciousness.  Grunting with the effort to pull himself to his feet, Angus fumbled for his stick, found it, and pushed his mammoth body to a standing position.  

Bent, and leaning heavily on the stick, Angus moved haltingly toward the lake.  After several excruciating minutes of labored walking, he reached the opening where the lake stretched in front of him.  Angus halted, and perched on a boulder overhanging the lake.  He was twenty feet above the water.  Well, he thought, it wasn’t their campsite, but it was the lake.  

Looking at the calm, rust colored water, he thought how refreshing it would be to just leap into the lake from his perch.  Upon closer inspection, though, he noticed his leap would have to extend several feet outward.  There were rocks jutting from the surface of the lake below.  He searched for a safe route down to the water and fortunately, found a narrow passageway between slabs of rock, clinging brush, and boulders thirty feet away from where he had sat.  

Angus negotiated his way through the tapered passageway.  He tried to avoid touching  rocks or bushes, but halfway down, branches scraped against his injured leg sending tentacles of pain throughout his body.  He let out an involuntary screech and pulled his leg away from the branches, being careful to steer clear of other obstacles.  

When he finally made it to the lake, he was almost delirious with excitement thinking of how the cool water would soothe his burning wounds.  Angus sat on a rock made for him and removed his boots and socks, then dipped both his legs into the water.  A shock of pure pleasure overcame him.  The coolness of the lake washed over his wounds, making him temporarily forget the sharpened stakes that had torn through his flesh and the ravaging pain that ensued.

He took the blood-soaked socks and began a routine of scrubbing them against the rocks and then rinsing them in the lake.  When he was satisfied the makeshift bandage was as clean as he could make it, he  laid it out over branches to dry.  He took both shirts off, tearing the tee-shirt into strips.  He used these dry pieces of cloth to tie over his wounds and then put his flannel shirt back on.  

Angus didn’t know if it was a chill in the air or a fever that made him shiver, but he knew he needed warmth.  Away from the shoreline, he found two, large slabs of rock that formed a wedge he could fit himself into.  Tearing bushes away from their roots and gathering pine boughs, he heaped them over himself.  He sat on dry earth with his back against the rocks, jammed in so tightly he could barely move.