Incomparable

  

 

My dream pub (as in publication, not bar)
photo by cottonbro studios on pexels

 

Comp. 

It’s one of those abbreviations that writers, editors and agents often bandy about. For years I had no clue what it actually meant, and true to form, I was too lazy to look it up. So in my mind “comp” stood for “complete” as in—"send us the complete piece/manuscript, not a pitch”. The other idea I had? “Comp” meant free (complimentary), as in, “this class/magazine/retreat is free” OR “we do not pay for essays. Accepted authors, however, do get one copy of the issue containing their work at no charge. You’re welcome!”

 

Then one day, embarrassingly recently, I finally learned what “comp” meant in the writerly context. Comp is the title of a published work that your own work resembles (“comparable”—get it?) So, if J.K. Rowling was submitting the first Harry Potter book, she might compare it to other books about the adventures of bespectacled young British student wizards named Harry. 

 

Perhaps that’s a bad example. 

 

More like:

 

Gone with the Wind is a sweeping saga of the old South during the Civil War and Reconstruction. Comp title: War and Peace

 

War and Peace is a sweeping saga of Russia during the time of Napoleon. Comp title: Gone with the Wind

 

The Wind in the Willows is a sweeping saga of the English countryside, and a bunch of animals that act just like people. Comp title: Animal Farm

 

Animal Farm is a sweeping saga of animals who overthrow their human masters, only to replicate the greedy and corrupt political system against which they had rebelled. Comp title: Dr. Seuss Discovers the Farm

 

The War in the Willows is a sweeping saga of several willow trees who, try as they might, cannot make one another weep. Comp title: Dr. Seuss Discovers the Riverbank

 

And so on and so forth. 

 

Anyhoo, now that I’m in the know, I’m eager to start dropping “comps” into my own submissions and queries. Check this out:

 

Dear Ed: (short for editor) (it’s fine) (trust me, they love to be called that)

 

I invite you to consider my essay “A Mildly Humorous, But Also Insightful, Look at Getting Old” for your swell magazine, Getting Old. It’s a sweeping saga of my perilous, yet somewhat comical, journey through middle age and beyond, filled with the gentle humor and insight your readers have come to expect (not from me, because I haven’t been published in your fine mag yet, but they have come to expect them—gentle humor/insight—from the other writers you have published in the past.)

 

The essay is currently 800 words, though I am happy to delete every other word if that’s too long for you, or, alternatively, add five or six adjectives/adverbs to every noun/verb, if it’s too short. 

 

I hope to hear from you soon, Ed! Thanks so much for your consideration. I’m a huge fan of Getting Old (your super publication, not the aging process, haha!)

 

Sincerely,

 

Elise Seyfried

 

PS Almost forgot! Comp title: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. 

Tarnished Arches

 

photo by Polina Tankilevich on Pexels

You can’t go home again.

You never step into the same river twice.

To these aphorisms, I add:

When you eat fast food, after a long time not eating it, you soon realize why you stopped eating fast food.

I guess that’s a bit long for an aphorism, but you get my point.

 

Sher, Ya-Jhu and Dimitri have been in California this week—Sher for a recording session, Yaj for the world premiere of her piano trio, and Dimitri for his conducting debut with the San Francisco Symphony (just kidding about that one; our grandbaby is advanced, all right, but not quite THAT advanced.) Anyhoo, we had the older boys Friday night, and I had the genius idea to get Mickey D’s for dinner. Needless to say, those poor lads were ecstatic. What a treat, after their regular, ho-hum diet of linguine with pesto, roasted duck breast, lobster and sushi! 

 

And indeed, they were thrilled opening those little boxes of McNuggets and chomping on those famous fries. I pretended to share their enthusiasm, as I attempted to enjoy my McDouble (which is relatively new to the menu. The difference between it and a double cheeseburger is: one less slice of cheese. Bold choice, Chef! ) My review? Unfortunately: yuck.

 

Part of the problem was picking up the meal, and then ferrying it home to consume. Fast food is at its most edible during the three-to-five minute window after it’s prepared. It took eight minutes to get home, by which time everything was cold. Microwaving it only added “rubbery” to its other qualities (greasy, salty). And I definitely noticed that the food sizes have shrunk, while the prices have not. I feel silly complaining, because larger burgers would NOT have solved the deliciousness issue. But gang, this not-such-a-feast for four was more than $30, with no sodas! 

 

I wasn’t always such a McHater. In college in Atlanta, I was managing on caffeine alone, driving into the city for an early morning class. By the time I headed home around 1 PM, I was starving, and rarely missed stopping at McDonald’s, right on my route. And during our years on the road touring with children’s theater, Steve and I regularly ate at Wendy’s, Pizza Hut--even Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips! The price was right, and often in those tiny towns, Taco Bell beat the only other option (the 7-11).

 

But in the decades since, I’ve cooked dinner for my gang nearly every night. Even using luxe ingredients at times, I have saved tons of money (saved our bodies from tons of additives too). And clearly my taste buds have evolved to the point that I can no longer stomach KFC or Burger King. 

 

Obviously, Aiden and Peter do not share this aversion. So, I imagine we will pass through those golden arches again, and, for my grandsons, it will always be cause for celebration.

 

Do you think they’ll notice if I hide my Beef Wellington in a Big Mac wrapper?

Little Aiden blissfully awaiting his chicken nuggets

Planning Sesh

Image by Clark Tibbs on Unsplash (too much pressure, Clark!!!)

I see that 2025 is off to a not-so-stellar start! Not even thinking of the wildfires in California or the three-ring circus that is the political scene…I’m just noticing that it’s already January 14th, and I still haven’t come up with all my writing goals for the “new” year. The old Elise would have thrown up her hands at this point, said, “Oh, well, too late now!” and returned to her exact same daily yogurt, berries and granola breakfast combo (so much for “diversify breakfast” goal). But new year, new me! I will forge ahead, planning and plotting my latest assault on the freelance writer game. 

 

Here's what I have so far (annotated by the author):

 

72 pitches (Wow, reaching out to editors with ideas for stories 72 times is a lot. Maybe 27? Yeah, that’s more like it.)

 

52% acceptance rate (I actually hit this mark last year, but that might’ve been a fluke. The way I see it, the fewer places I pitch, the higher an acceptance rate would be, no? I mean, if I pitch just one place, and get a “yes”—BINGO. 100%!)

 

Pitch 10 major new outlets (Gotta break out of my rut! But even one new publication would be a victory, so OK. One. And why shoot for The New Yorker? I’ve never written for The Oreland Observer, either! Oh, you say there’s no such newspaper? That is NOT my fault. I’m putting this wonderful, if imaginary, publication on my list. If any of you readers are so inclined, feel free to create The Oreland Observer yourself. I’ll write for you!)

 

My newsletter: Get to 200 subscribers. (I’m at 158 now, need 42 more peeps to sign up. So many peeps! Too noisy. Peep down, I say! Let’s aim for 1-2 more, tops.)

 

This blog: 52 weekly posts (Does that count this one, and the one last week, which are both technically January posts? Or do I start now, and count next week as the first post of ’25? OR do I calculate from this one, but not last week? And what if I do two in one week? Better say just “52 posts." But that’s a weird amount if you aren’t counting weeks, amirite? Maybe 25 posts is a better number, and I can reward myself if I make it to 26.)

 

Apply for writing residency (This is a long-time dream of mine. Yaddo in Saratoga Springs, NY! The MacDowell Colony in Peterborough, NH! There are retreats and residencies everywhere, from the Rocky Mountains to the South of France. All it takes to get into one is talent. And luck. And money, for many of them. But maybe if I start small…I hear there’s a cool, free, talent-optional new residency right here in Oreland! It’s on my street! It’s even in my house! I think I have a shot!) 

 

Looking these over has reminded me: goals are nothing but artificial constructs, with disappointment and failure their regular features. 

 

I've decided to skip ‘em. 

Riverside Cottage, Bibury, UK (where we stayed last Spring. I'd go back there for a writing retreat in a heartbeat. )

Hermit-ically (Un)Sealed

St. A of E (not sure what that skull is doing there)

Having taken numerous personality tests online, I consider myself a true expert on—myself. I am an introverted extrovert (extroverted introvert?) No surprise, given my bipolar nature. I love being with people, for brief periods, after which I crave alone time, for just a bit. Rinse and repeat. I could never be Party Girl 24/7, nor could I be a true lone wolf.

But I’ve always been fascinated by those folks who have retreated from the outside world in favor of a totally solitary existence. Personally, I’d be so sick of my own company after just a few hours that I’d welcome a serial killer into my cave. Obviously, there are many who have felt differently, such as…

 

Saint Anthony of Egypt: (251-356) The first Christian monk, and first of the “Desert Fathers” (cool rock band name, no?), Saint A of E dwelt all by his lonesome, for many decades. Legend has it that ravens brought him his food (he ate only bread and salt). During his solitude, he was tempted many times by Satan. Anthony lived to be 105, which, considering the demonic torments and the bread-only diet, was probably more punishment than treat. 

 

Julian of Norwich: (1342-1412) Julian, a nun and mystic, wrote the famous “Revelations of Divine Love,” (first book written in English by a woman) after her miraculous recovery from the Black Death. She spent the rest of her life alone, in prayer, in a tiny cell attached to a cathedral. The brilliant, compassionate Julian was also a cat lady (sorry, JD Vance!) She was allowed a cat as a pet because—actual quote—“Cows were too big.” No argument here.

 

Johann Wilhelm Stolting, The Hermit of Ardsley NY (1805-1884) An irascible German immigrant, Stolting lived alone in a small, rough-hewn cottage, which nowadays in Westchester County would no doubt fetch at least 3 million bucks. He made his living by selling newspapers and buttons. He hated cities, and most people. Oh, and he slept in a coffin. Always planning ahead, that Johann!

 

More recent examples of hermits include: 

 

Dorothy Molter, “The Root Beer Lady”: a scrappy Minnesotan and former nurse, who sold her homemade root beer to canoeists, and was the only person living in the huge Boundary Waters Canoeing Area for the last 38 years of her life. 

 

Tom Wooldridge, The Leopard Man (Scotland): not only did this former military officer live in isolation on the Isle of Skye, he was known as the “most tattooed man in the world,” with 90% of his body adorned with leopard-like spots. Thus decorated, Tom was able to scare the wild leopards away from Scotland (I just made that last part up).

 

And finally, Herman’s: these musical lads were not actual Hermits, but had a cool rock band name (though not as cool as Desert Fathers). 

As society becomes ever more shunnable, I foresee a big jump in hermit numbers. Not for me, but maybe…

 

Elise Seyfried, The Hermit of Barnes and Noble?

 

That could work.