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.

TAGS: Chicken Soup for the Soul, Selling out, Victoria Patterson

Drift, Victoria Patterson's collection of interlinked short stories, was selected as a finalist for the 2009 Story Prize. Her novel, This Vacant Paradise, is forthcoming with Counterpoint Press in February 2011. Her fiction and nonfiction have appeared in various literary journals, including The Southern Review, Santa Monica Review, and The Florida Review. Her short story “Johnny Hitman” was listed in the 100 Distinguished Stories in Best American Short Stories 2009.

Related Posts Tribute to The Moms by  VICTORIA PATTERSON TNB contributor Victoria Patterson’s Drift a Finalist for The Story Prize by  BRAD LISTI When We Fell In Love - Victoria Patterson by  JASON CHAMBERS, JONATHAN EVISON, DENNIS HARITOU, & JASON RICE Adjusting to Newport by  VICTORIA PATTERSON

This entry was posted on Monday, December 14th, 2009 at 4:45 pm and is filed under Arts & Culture, Essays, Nonfiction, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.