ESSAY
On Selling OutLOS ANGELES 14 December 2009 |
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A few months after my story “The Kindness of Strangers” was selected for Chicken Soup for Every Mom’s Soul, New Stories of Love and Inspiration for Moms of All Ages, I got a phone call fairly late at night (past ten p.m.) from a woman editor who—between her rasping cough—let me know that I needed to make the story “more Chicken-Soupy.”
“The thing is,” I said, “I already Chicken-Souped it up.”
“Hold on,” she said, and I heard her rattling around, moving through rooms, shuffling papers. She sucked in her breath, let it out, and I realized that she was smoking. “Your story is here somewhere,” she said. I imagined her wearing a ratty robe, a generous King-sized glass of scotch nearby. “Wait,” she said, “I know where it is.” We both laughed, and then she was walking outside into the dark night, cordless phone in tow, to her car at the curb. “Look at that moon,” she said.
“You know,” I said, to stay on topic, “I think it’s very Chicken-Soupy.”
“It’s here somewhere,” she said, and she beeped her car alarm off, opened her car door. Whatever she beheld made her comment, in a detached tone, “What a mess.”
“What does ‘more Chicken-Soupy’ mean?” I asked, although I already knew and dreaded the answer.
She let out a dark laugh, which provoked me to laugh, and then she sighed. “Yeah, well,” she said. Who was this jaded moon-loving Chicken Soup employee, I wondered, fishing for my story amidst the debris of her life? She struck me, for some reason, as a recent divorcé. I liked her and she liked me, and I imagined that after we hung up, she would probably smoke a few more cigarettes, drink the rest of her scotch, and then call it a night.
I wanted to explain, tell her: I submitted the story late one night—kids and husband long asleep. Insomnia—fiddling around on the Internet, discovering a call for submissions (“Changing the world one story at a time”). Tired of rejections, craving publication, to earn some money for once (two hundred dollars). I read entries to understand the formula, and then I churned mine out in an hour or so, sent it off, thinking no more about it. Not telling anyone, God no. More than two years later, I got the email, letting me know that my story was rated in the top percentile (“This is a great accomplishment!”).
I wanted to tell her about the shame and the niggling pride (hundreds of stories, the email told me, and they’d selected mine). The Chicken Soup enterprise troubled me: the saccharine stories, Jack Canfield’s photo and the others on the back covers, like real estate agents. How could I participate?
But what was the big deal? No one I knew or respected would read it. I’d be two hundred dollars richer, and, at the same time, I’d make readers feel good. People read this stuff, liked this stuff. It was like getting a Hallmark card on a rough day. I even choked up reading the stories (though admittedly, it’s not a difficult thing to make me choke up). Mine was actually a sweet story—yes, Chicken-Soupy, and the coughing editor had managed to Chicken-Soup it up even more, but I could stand behind it.
So, along with my check for two hundred dollars that disappeared in one visit to the grocery store, I received two contributor’s copies of Chicken Soup for Every Mom’s Soul, New Stories of Love and Inspiration for Moms of All Ages, which I promptly gave to my parents, experiencing, for the first time with my writing, my father and stepmother’s respect. They had me sign my copy.
But I should’ve known by how I didn’t want the book in my house that I was uncomfortable with what I’d done. And how can I explain the feeling that came over me when I walked into a bookstore, knowing that my dream of having my name live amongst the authors I respected had been accomplished through a book that mostly embarrassed me?
And like a bad rash, the Chicken Soup enterprise would not let me forget, nor leave me alone, sending emails (sometimes weekly, sometimes monthly) with their calls for submissions (Did I have a story about prison for Chicken Soup for the Prisoners’ Soul? How about my experience with menopause for Chicken Soup for the Menopausal Soul? On and on).
I couldn’t get off their email server list, and I finally resorted to sending them un-Chicken-Soupy emails: LEAVE ME ALONE NOW. Right Now. I have been trying to get off your server list FOR YEARS.
But they continued taunting me with their cheerful emails, their invitations to submit, their conferences and motivational speakers, until I finally became impervious, deleting them without opening them. An unremitting nuisance.
And then, years later, the emails stopped. Had a Chicken Soup employee finally taken pity?
But the rash flared two years ago when I opened my mailbox to discover a package with the Chicken Soup logo. A letter congratulated me: my story had been selected as one of the top 101 stories, recycled, come to life again in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Moms & Sons: Stories by Mothers and Sons, in Appreciation of Each Other (Chicken Soup for the Soul; Our 101 Best Stories).
As payment, the more than billion-dollar Chicken Soup enterprise had decided to send me one contributor’s copy, which, admittedly, made for a nice present for my father and stepmother; and once again, they insisted that I sign it.
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Victoria, welcome aboard! I was wondering if you’d like to submit this piece to Chicken Soup for the Chicken Soup Writer’s Soul. I think your heartwarming rendition would really touch a lot of people who have experienced what you have.
Thanks for the welcome! I’d take your suggestion into consideration–but it’s just that I’m already committed to Chicken Soup for the Disillusioned with Chicken Soup Forever and Longer and I Shouldn’t Have Done it in the First Place Soul.
There’s a book title right there… Chicken Soup for the Man, I Shouldn’t Have Done That In The First Place Soul.
Yikes. How about: Chicken Soup for the Woman’s Soul, Inspirational Stories about Staying Away from the I Shouldn’t Have Done That In The First Place Man
Ha! I’m not sure that’s gender-specific.
I agree…
Welcome to the club. We’ve all sold our souls, I think. But when you know you did it and can write a story like this, and then learn to not do it again, then you’re fine. If you get trapped into Chicken Souping everything, you’re screwed.
Selling one’s soul may be foolish but more foolish still is failing to profit from renting it out on occasion (ensuring, of course, that you first get an adequate security deposit against potential damages… and perhaps have it Scotchgarded, just in case).
Thanks for the comments. David, I think there are so many ways to sell out–and often it’s a fine line. I have to pay attention to my internal yuck-alarm. Fortunately, it’s pretty loud. But when I think about the Chicken Soup for the Soul deal, I don’t necessarily regret it. It wasn’t worth the hassle–but I learned a great deal from it.
Definitely important to Scotchgard the soul. But I think Scotchgard has been taken off the market because it’s a carcinogen. Hmm…
Fret not and Chicken Soup away! According to 3M, their revamped Scotchgard line has been perfluoro-octanyl-free since 2001 (although I saw nothing on their site’s FAQ about the stain protection offered to souls using their current product so caveat emptor).
I do some of my best (and worst) writing over scotch and a few cigarettes. You must have caught her on an off night.
Putting food on the table is never selling out. Welcome.
Thanks for the comments. Thomas, a few cigarettes and a glass of scotch are lovely conduits to writing. And Ducky, you’re right: food on the table is a very good thing.
Oh, and it’s good to know that Scotchgard is perfluoro-octanyl-free. Pass over that can.
Huh. I could swear I had commented on this. But it totally came down to: be proud of your sale. You’re a writer for a best-selling series.
That’s pretty awesome.
Nice post. Welcome to the site.
It’s tough, isn’t it? Being true to your voice and still making editors happy?
Because I am an agreeable sort- to a fault, almost- I often have trouble sticking up for my own point of view. But I agree with everyone else. You should absolutely be proud of the sale.
I’m proud that I’ve kept writing, despite the constant setbacks and rejections and lack of rewards. To be honest, I’m not that proud of having a story in the Chicken Soup series.
You know, I always see these calls for submissions about terribly specific topics. Stuff like, “Write about a time you were wronged by the medical industry,” or “Send us your stories of crying in public.” When I see these, I always feel like, “Man, i have no good excuse for being unpublished when there are all these opportunities out there …” And yet, why would I want to write on the topics they’re looking for? Where is the anthology of writers bemoaning the ridiculous stuff editors ask for?
On an ever-so-slightly related note, I once did a freelance piece that involved attending a tattoo show and taking some pictures of people’s tattoos. As I mingled with the crowd looking for people to talk with, I had the good fortune to chat with one of the featured tattoo artists, a 40-something woman with a lot of ink and a great reputation for her work. I included her in the story thinking it was a great find. The editor, however, chastised me for it. She said I shouldn’t talk to people “outside our demographic.” Apparently the demographic was 20-something private university hipsters with ironic tattoos. I didn’t work for that publication for very long …
Yes, frustrating. Demographics, blah.
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Victoria, be happy you made the cut. I entered that one too but didn’t make it. Not enough salt, they said.
Best!
Thanks, Paul!
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