Writers--Listen to Your Heart

This is a repeat from several years ago. It still has merit and is perfect for this Valentine week

A good many years ago, I submitted to a Chicken Soup for the Soul book for the first time. The story was a simple one, a childhood memory, that I thought might work for the Fathers and Daughters book. Maybe.

I hesitated to send it. Why? My pride told me it was impossible because rejection hurts a lot. Experience added that I hadn't been writing very long, and the Chicken Soup editors received hundreds, maybe even a thousand or more, submissions for each book. My chances were pretty slim. Reason stepped in and sneered at me as it said it was pointless to submit this story. What would it matter to the rest of the world? Then they laughed and I whimpered.

All three had ganged up on me, and then a funny thing happened. My heart whispered softly in my ear. Your story is something others can relate to. Go ahead and give it a try. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. I pushed pride, experience and reason out the door. I liked what my heart told me.

I sent the story. Many months later, I received a notice that the story had made it to the finals. My heart did a happy dance. I waited a few weeks longer before learning that the story had made it into the book. What a thrill to hold the published book in my hand a few months later.

That story was "Love In A Box"  which is about a Valentine box my dad made for me when I was in the second grade. At age seven, I suddenly realized that my hardworking father truly loved me. That fact came as a startling discovery, one that left a life-long impression on me. Apparently, readers related to it and responded positively, so much so that the story has been published multiple times in English and some foreign languages.

What if I hadn't listened to my heart? What if I'd let those three bullies push me into a corner? Have you ever had a project that you wanted to submit somewhere but held back for one or more of the reasons above? What kept you from sending it? Were those three bullies---pride, experience and reason--invading your space, too?

Don't let them push you around. Remind yourself that you wrote a good story or poem or essay and that it deserves a chance. Get the submission ready, hit the Submit button and laugh at the three bullies. Listen to your heart. Your heart knows you better than those three twerps who try to place blocks in your way.

Remember this:  If you don't submit, you cannot be published.

My story Love in a Box is below.       

When I was a little girl, I found love in a box all because of a class assignment. On a Friday night I made an announcement at the dinner table. The words bubbled out in a torrent of excitement I could no longer contain. “My teacher said we have to bring a box for our Valentines on Monday. But it has to be a special box all decorated.”

Mother said, “We’ll see,” and she continued eating.

I wilted faster than a flower with no water. What did “We’ll see” mean? I had to have that box, or there would be no Valentines for me. My second grade Valentine’s Day would be a disaster. Maybe they didn’t love me enough to help me with my project.

All day Saturday I waited, and I worried, but there was no mention of a Valentine box. Sunday arrived, and my concern increased, but I knew an inquiry about the box might trigger anger and loud voices. I kept an anxious eye on both my parents all day. In 1947, children only asked once. More than that invited punitive measures; at least in my house it 

Late Sunday afternoon, my father called me into the tiny kitchen of our apartment. The table was covered with an assortment of white crepe paper, red construction paper, and bits and pieces of lace and ribbon from my mother’s sewing basket. An empty shoebox rested on top of the paper. Relief flooded through me when Daddy said, “Let’s get started on your project.”

In the next hour, my father transformed the empty shoebox into a valentine box I would never forget. Crepe paper covered the ugly cardboard. My father fashioned a ruffled piece of the pliable paper and glued it around the middle. He cut a slot in the lid and covered it with more of the white paper. Next came red hearts attached in what I considered all the right places. He hummed a tune while he worked, and I kneeled on my chair witnessing the magical conversion of the shoebox and handing him the glue when he needed it. When he finished, my father’s eyes sparkled, and a smile stretched across his thin face. “What do you think of that?”

My answer was a hug and a “Thank you, Daddy.”

Inside, joy danced all the way to my heart. It was the first time that my father devoted so much time to me. His world consisted of working hard to support his family, adoring my mother, disciplining my brother and me, and listening to every sports event broadcast on the radio. Suddenly, a new door opened in my life. My father loved me.

Monday morning, my mother found a brown grocery sack to protect the beautiful box while I carried it to school. I barely felt the bitter cold of the February day as I held the precious treasure close to me. I would let no harm come to my special Valentine box.

My teacher cleared a space on a long, wide windowsill where the decorated boxes would stay until Valentine’s Day. I studied each one as it was placed on the sill, and none compared with mine. Every time I peeked at my Valentine box, I felt my father’s love. My pride knew no bounds. There were moments when the box actually glowed in a spotlight all its own. No doubt the only one who witnessed that glow was me.

Every day some of my classmates brought Valentine cards to school and slipped them into the slots of the special boxes. The holiday party arrived, and we brought our boxes to our desks to open the Valentines. Frosted heart cookies, red punch, Valentines and giggles filled our classroom. Chaos reigned until dismissal time arrived.

I carried my Valentine box home proudly. It wasn’t hidden in a grocery sack but held out for the world to admire. I showed it to the policeman who guided us across a busy city street. He patted me on the head and exclaimed over the box. I made sure everyone along the way took note of my Valentine box. My father had made it for me, and the love that filled the box meant more to me than all the valentines nestled inside.

From that time on, I never doubted my father’s feelings for me. The valentine box became a symbol of his love that lasted through decades of other Valentine Days. He gave me other gifts through the years, but none ever compared with the tender love I felt within the confines of the old, empty shoe box.

Originally published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Dads and Daughters book

  

Writers--Listen To Your Heart

A good many years ago, I submitted to a Chicken Soup for the Soul book for the first time. The story was a simple one, a childhood memory, that I thought might work for the Fathers and Daughters book. Maybe.

I hesitated to send it. Why? My pride told me it was impossible because rejection hurts a lot. Experience added that I hadn't been writing very long, and the Chicken Soup editors received hundreds, maybe even a thousand or more, submissions for each book. My chances were pretty slim. Reason stepped in and sneered at me as it said it was pointless to submit this story. What would it matter to the rest of the world? Then they laughed and I whimpered.

All three had ganged up on me, and then a funny thing happened. My heart whispered softly in my ear. Your story is something others can relate to. Go ahead and give it a try. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. I pushed pride, experience and reason out the door. I liked what my heart told me.

I sent the story. Many months later, I received a notice that the story had made it to the finals. My heart did a happy dance. I waited a few weeks longer before learning that the story had made it into the book. What a thrill to hold the published book in my hand a few months later.

That story was "Love In A Box"  which is about a Valentine box my dad made for me when I was in the second grade. At age seven, I suddenly realized that my hardworking father truly loved me. That fact came as a startling discovery, one that left a life-long impression on me. Apparently, readers related to it and responded positively, so much so that the story has been published multiple times in English and some foreign languages.

What if I hadn't listened to my heart? What if I'd let those three bullies push me into a corner? Have you ever had a project that you wanted to submit somewhere but held back for one or more of the reasons above? What kept you from sending it? Were those three bullies---pride, experience and reason--invading your space, too?

Don't let them push you around. Remind yourself that you wrote a good story or poem or essay and that it deserves a chance. Get the submission ready, hit the Submit button and laugh at the three bullies. Listen to your heart. Your heart knows you better than those three twerps who try to place blocks in your way.

Remember this:  If you don't submit, you cannot be published.

Tom Spoke, I Listened

Today, I'm posting an article I wrote awhile back about how I learned to submit my work. The clipart below shows someone mailing their submission but most today are don via email. It doesn't matter how you submit, the main thing is to submit your work. The article below will show you how I came to that realization. It was the best advice I've ever had in my writing world. 

Tom Spoke, I Listened

By Nancy Julien Kopp

A new member of my critique group finished reading her short story, and the rest of us discussed it at length. Then, silence reigned, until Tom uttered familiar words in his quiet but firm manner. “Send it in! No editor is going to climb in your bedroom window and search for a manuscript stashed in a dresser drawer.” No smile came with the words. He meant every word. He repeated his advice in different ways at nearly every meeting of the small critique group he had founded. “You will never be published if you don’t submit your work.”

 He moderated with patience and consideration for the fragile egos of beginning writers. He dished out praise only when earned, and he had no qualms about pointing out the problems in a piece of writing shared with the group.

“Send it in!” became his mantra, and, for me, the encouraging words started to sink in. Common sense told me to follow his advice. After all, he submitted his stories to magazines and websites on a regular basis, and his work appeared in a printed media many times. But common sense often quarrels with a lack of confidence. I questioned Tom’s wisdom as I drove home from the meetings. Just because he can get his work published doesn’t mean I can. Or does it?

I worked up my courage and submitted a nonfiction article for kids to a magazine listed in Writer’s Market. The article detailed a game reserve park we’d visited, a good subject for young and curious minds. The interminable wait began. Several weeks later, the editor returned my story saying that she liked the subject but it needed energy, and she invited me to revise and send it to her again. Part of me thrilled to her invitation to rework the story, and another part slowly deflated like a balloon with a leak.

I pondered that word “energy” for several days. I had no clue what she was looking for, but one day I rewrote the piece featuring two children and their grandparents on a visit to Kruger Park in South Africa. I used a story approach but managed to get the pertinent info from the original article into it, as well. I still wasn’t sure what the editor wanted, but I followed Tom’s advice and sent it back to her. That turned out to be my first sale.

Greatly encouraged, I began to submit more of my work. Some went to nonpaying websites, but they accepted many of my submissions. I gathered several clips and my confidence level moved up the ladder. I also got many rejections, just as all beginning writers do, but somehow those published works soothed the rejection barbs. Success breeds confidence.

After moving to another state, I entered several pieces for the prose section in our state authors contest. I’d also written a poem to fit the Theme Division even though I knew little about poetry. I wanted to send it in, but I hesitated. I had no training nor real knowledge about writing poetry. Any poem I wrote came from the heart and satisfied me if it sounded right. The poem pleased me when I read it, but maybe it would sound like pretty amateur stuff to the judges. I lacked the courage to send it, until one day I heard Tom’s words in my head loud and clear—Send it in! Send it in! Send it in! I listened and mailed the entry that day. I got pretty excited when the first place notice and check arrived in my mailbox.

Time passed, and I wrote memoirs, inspirational articles, children’s stories and articles on the craft of writing. I didn’t let them stack up in my files. I submitted them to many places. My work has appeared in several anthologies, paying websites, magazines and newspapers. I still get rejections, but they don’t bother me as much now. I revise and submit elsewhere. Quite often, as I send a submission via e-mail or stamp a snail mail envelope addressed to an editor, I hear Tom’s voice with a clarity that makes it very real. “Send it in! Send it in! Send it in!”

Not everyone in that first critique group followed Tom’s advice. Some allowed stories and articles to pile up in a file of unpublished work. As for me, I took advantage of the best writing advice I’ve ever had, and I’m still reaping the benefits.