Forty years ago, my wife brought home an entry form for a poetry contest. A friend of hers at work had given it to Joleen. The rules called for submitting as many poems as you like, and that the winning ones would be included in a new book.
At the prodding of her and one of our friends, I mailed in three entries. A few weeks later, I was informed via an official-looking letter that all of my poems were exceptional and that they would be included in this collector’s book.
It was suggested by them that I purchase several to give as gifts to friends and family. Joleen decided on how many, seven in total, at $35 a pop. A check was then mailed off by me.
Months later, with the check being cashed and no poetry books having arrived, I decided to investigate. Turns out the address that the illicit contest hailed from was no longer occupied. It was a tiny cubicle in a group of similar offices.
The phone number was also invalid, and I was told by the police sergeant in that town that this contest was a scam. Thousands of suckers like myself had been conned, and the postal service was looking for those responsible. I told myself that’d never happen again, and it hasn’t.
A few years after that episode, I was taking creative writing classes under Professor Michael Burwell at the University of Alaska – Anchorage. A student brought in an “Anchorage Daily News” newspaper, with it showing they were putting on a creative writing contest. At the insistence of Professor Burwell, he encouraged us all to enter the college student category.
I submitted a story called “Fishin’ With Mike.” It was a non-fiction piece about me taking my Uncle Noel fishing to Jerome Lake on the Kenai Peninsula. Uncle Noel and Aunt Gay were visiting Alaska, from Alabama, that summer, with him looking forward to catching some prize Alaskan fish.
Unbeknownst to me, Jerome Lake had more chiggers than fish, and my uncle was almost eaten alive by the invisible bugs. There wasn’t enough Calomine Lotion in the house to go around after he got back to our place.
That story made the rounds of family members for some time. Mom was upset at me because, during the whole time Noel was walking through the weeds casting his line, I’d slept like a baby on a flat rock.
When the “We Alaskans” section of the newspaper came out telling who’d won the writing contest, my name was listed under “Honorary Mention.” A few friends, including my wife, thought that was great. As somewhat of a joke, I framed the certificate sent to me and kept it on my office wall.
What Joleen and others failed to recognize at the time was that I’m a car guy. Those of us bestowed that title see anything less than first place as unworthy. The late and great NASCAR racer, Dale Earnhardt, coined the phrase, “Second place is the first loser!” In all essence, my honorary mention in writing was the same as an honorary loser.
On the positive side of things, many years later, I submitted that same story to an Alaskan magazine, and it was published. Getting anything published is reward enough for me. You see, I only want people to read my junk, and I ask for nothing more.
These days, having six books under my belt, I receive at least three phone calls a week from people saying that they want to help me market my material. They leave messages, most of them in a foreign-tinted accent, asking that I call them back.
Most, if not all, cannot correctly say my name or the title of the book. Of course, these scammers want my money for their bogus assistance more than anything. They’ve even gone so far as to call my son, believing that they’re talking to me.
Forty years ago, I was bestowed the ASOTY award (Alaska Sucker of the Year) for sending that poetry outfit over $200. The last thing I want is the same title here in Arizona.
Joleen and I will continue to laugh out loud as these solicitors leave crazy messages on our phone recorder. I told her I can’t wait for them to try saying, Alaska Kemosabe, with that being the name of my last book. Life is always full of chuckles here in Lake Havasu City!
I like to write junk... 