NEW YORK, NEW YORK!

As anybody who slogs away in the creative arts knows, it’s hard to get noticed. Rejection is common. Oftentimes, self-doubt even blocks opportunities for rejection.

I’ve been somewhat lucky. I’ve had a children’s novel published and several articles have appeared in various publications. Still, it’s been a dozen years since the novel came out and the royalties afford me nothing more than a couple of bottles of wine each year. (I don’t even buy the pricey stuff. My taste buds aren’t that discerning and there are many twist-top bottles with really pretty labels to catch my eye.) Most articles don’t have legs. They land in the recycling bin at the end of the day or when the next monthly issue appears. Too often my inner writer’s voice takes on a lame Janet Jackson impression, singing the chorus of “What Have You Done for Me Lately?”

I plod on. The Scrabble tiles on my desk try to set the right tone: JUST WRITE. And so I do. I’m very compliant even knowing that my Scrabble tiles would have no recourse if I decided to try out a streak of defiance. Luckily I can’t stomach Ryan Seacrest and I have no desire to get an update on who the current hosts are on “The View.” By seven o’clock every morning five days a week if not six, I’m at my laptop, typing away, working on this manuscript or that one, later revising another, switching after lunch to my latest essay-in-progress before researching agents and possibly trying again to draft the perfect query letter to captivate an agent or editor enough to make them desperate to read my first chapters and scramble to fire off an eager email: “Is your work still available?” Imagination can be a wonderful thing.

We writers write because we love it. We fall in love with characters—even the villains. Especially the villains. Truly, it’s all great fun. But, like a singer wants to be heard and a painter wants to be seen, a writer yearns to be read. Creative people—even the introverts like me—appreciate an audience.

Okay...blah, blah, blah. I suppose I’m trying to set the stage to convey how I feel right now. “Over the moon” isn’t enough. That’s for cows, isn’t it? And, truthfully, I’ve never been captivated by space travel. Let’s just say I’m elated to the nth degree. (Still a bit science-y, in the vaguest of ways, which duly matches my comprehension of all things, well, science-y.)

About five years ago, when I moved back to the city, I started buying The New York Times every Sunday. It was one of those urban luxuries. The articles went deeper than any other daily newspaper I’d read. The opinion pieces left me with things to think about. The travel section had me suddenly searching airfare rates to Ghana—alas, still lingering on my bucket list—and the Vows section, always seeming to include a wedding announcement from two men who met on OkCupid, made me continue to believe that love was possible. That’s a lot for one newspaper to accomplish, consistently, week after week. I heart Sundays.

In time, I dared to dream big. What if I got published in The New York Times? A Sunday edition, no less. In my mind, it would be the highest honor in terms of daily or monthly media. I set my eye on “36 Hours,” a weekly feature focusing on what you can do on a short stay in a particular city. I considered the less frequent travel feature, “Five Places.” I brainstormed smaller travel snippets. On a different note, I thought about what I could contribute as a “Modern Love” essay.

In early 2018, I submitted my first Modern Love essay. Hello, rejection. It stung a bit but it helped that a literary journal accepted and published the same essay. In early 2019, I came up with a new essay for Modern Love. Another rejection. I didn’t even bother to send it elsewhere.

Over the last couple of years, I also submitted six travel articles and one other essay to my beloved NYT. I never heard back about these. It’s become common practice to not even send a rejection. We’ll only contact you if we’re interested. The professional world is starting to look too much like dating sites.

I still loved my New York Times. Things were just a little totally one-sided. Hope turned to hopeless. I didn’t have more interesting places I’d traveled to and my inner voice switched to impersonating Air Supply: I was “All Out of Love.” No more travel submissions, no more Modern Love queries. The Times’ editors could all breathe a sigh of relief.

Early in 2020, a new Modern Love possibility landed in my lap. There was a coronavirus connection so I rushed to write and submit it in mid-April. A week letter, I read online that the paper was overwhelmed with pandemic-related Modern Love submissions. Naturally. Didn’t the pandemic put a new spin on every kind of relationship? Struggling writers, each writing what they know (as we’re so often advised to do), had fresh stories on how lockdowns, face masks and stacks of toilet paper rolls stored in the corner of the bedroom were shaking up the status quo.

Okay, so my idea wouldn’t stand out. I probably wouldn’t have bothered sending it had I stumbled on that news beforehand. Time passed. Lockdowns lifted. What I’d sent was stale. The only new love possibility for another essay submission involved salted caramel ice cream. I imagined the presumed rejection before writing a single sentence. In went back to my manuscripts and posting an occasional entry on my blog that’s been getting a lot less traffic this year. Apparently blogs are passé. Sadly (or fortunately?) I don’t have the tech skills to start a podcast.

On September 19, I got an email from the Modern Love editor. He liked my essay. The very words I’d long imagined were there: “Is it still available?” Not kidding, I fell to the floor, a freakish mix of laughing and crying consuming me as my body shook. So much pent-up yearning spilling out. I picked myself up, paced, reread the email to check my reading skills and then replied. Something slightly more professional than “YES!” It took a day for him to answer with something more subdued than the “TERRIFIC!” but that’s what I read between the lines. He’d call in about two weeks.

I’m not good at waiting. I planned extra hikes taking me out of internet range so I wouldn't obsessively check my emails. I even booked a three-day trip a couple of hours away (with more hikes) to distract myself. I told no one. I worried that it wouldn’t actually happen. Oh, hey, I just read it again. It’s not good enough. I really have to stop day-drinking...damned pandemic. Sorry. I have all sorts of different versions of that message. As a writer, I’ve become wired for rejection.

Then a boilerplate contract for freelance NYT writers arrived in my inbox along with some tax paperwork. I completely everything STAT as if it was a hurdle they were looking for me to stumble on. Rejection with bloody knees.

Finally a new email from the editor found its way into my inbox. He needed to set up a time to talk on the phone. Monday or Tuesday? he asked. You can guess which day I picked. 1:30 or 4:00? Again, guess. We hadn’t established which time zone but I was ready for Eastern Standard Time. As 10:30 Pacific Time neared, I did the kind of throat clearing exercises I’ve seen opera singers do. I hoped to channel a voice that came off as more Ted Baxter and less Elmo. The time came and went. An email. He was swamped. How about 4:30? Sure. A.M. or P.M., didn’t matter.

The call lasted about thirty minutes. He gave me a publication date and walked me through the process. He asked me some background things and I made him laugh several times. (My background has a way of doing that.) All good. This was really real. Legit.

The edits were light. He just needed to cut 100 words. Cut anything. My right hand if you want.

Then came what was referred to as “playback,” a version sent by a different editor in final article form. The headline made me squirm. Made me sound slutty. Whatever. They hadn’t taken any body parts. I’d live with sounding slutty.

Then I didn’t sleep so well. I already knew I wouldn't tell my parents about the article. There were things they wouldn't be able to handle. Same for my siblings. But, as I lay awake, listening to the occasional siren pass by—How do I ever sleep through that?—I thought about my friends’ reactions and those of my past colleagues and, good god, my past students.

I asked for a headline change, still worrying that they would just walk away. So many coronavirus stories, after all. I prepared for my relationship with salted caramel ice cream to intensify. There would be whipped cream. And chocolate sauce.

Another title suggestion came back. Meh. Stick with the first one, I said. It was catchier, at least. Still, another suggestion. Better. Mildly squirm-worthy but, hey, it went with the topic. My essay wasn’t about finding love at the dog park.

Long story made much longer, it’s happened. I can proudly say I’m a New York Times published writer. I have the paper copy and a few unsolicited nasty tweets from strangers to prove it. Last’s night’s ice cream never tasted better. My inner voice is doing an extraordinarily cringe-inducing impression of Frank Sinatra singing, “New York, New York.” Turn up the volume. Let it go on automatic replay.

Here’s the link:

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/10/23/style/modern-love-its-not-easy-being-easy.html

If that doesn’t work, Google my name, Gregory Walters, and the headline: “I Was Done Dating.” There’s more—the squirmy bit—but that should be enough to get you to the article. Thanks so much for reading this...and, of course, that!