Rite de Passage

Unpublished Authors
Altin Topi
Alb-Club Jul 2002

Twenty years ago, - well, I have to admit, surely, it sounds a long time ago, - I was living in Taubinit of Zentana, bewildered by my youth and a sense that I was a would-be great Zentanian poet and narrator. Imaginary, I was living the parallel dream of an Ezra Pound, a Gertrude Stein, a Joyce, or a Hemingway, at the time when living in Paris, the museum city, the would-be writers often couldn't afford even a modest meal. My almost daily itinerary, summer or winter weather, no matter what, was a long promenade along the Taubinit's Seine, - Lumi i Lanes. As strange as it might sound, this distinctive fixture of my beloved city was (and still is) officially considered a "Lum", in Zentanian is the word for river, or named so at least, in some antique and scarce maps, including a fragmentary tourist guide, as the first and maybe the only edition, which at different times appeared and disappeared from the circulation as an indicative sign of new and different circumstances, the ups-and-downs of the regime's mood. But, for me, and I generally believe, as for all the Parisians, the River Seine is simply, the Seine, as for the majority of Taubinit's residents, Lumi i Lanes is just Lana.


Only two decades later, after I have slept by the Seine begging the passing tourists for some change, in one of many Paris nocturnal promenades along Seine's watery highway, only then, I was able to realize that Lana couldn't have been the Seine, especially for a young Zentanian would-be writer. My city, Taubinit, lacked the bottom line rule of Paris, a place of pilgrimage and pedigree, a capital of tourism and arts. I trust my explanation, peculiar as it might seem. A young would-be writer in Paris, lived in a garret with a skylight, paying $2.50 rent, enduring a strictly diet, with a food budget about the same, while I had to share my room with my siblings, rent free; I was living with my parents and they were paying for it. The newly adapted Parisian writer used propane camping stove for cooking and everything else, bathed once a week by appointment in one of the public hotel bathtubs, while I had to fight with my siblings over our share of weekly chicken broth, a bowl of beans, and unjustly, I was forcefully thrown, sometimes twice a week, into a primitive shower, similar to one in a boot camp, which entitled me every week to use liberally my bed. Do you think that I had any other choice? Many would-be Parisian fictionists used as toilets various underbridge passes, metro stair landings and back copies of Le Monde as daily accidents in public parks or cheap cafés, while I had to be all the time in the vicinity of those very few public toilet places and only in extremis, exercising my natural right of natura naturalis behind bushes pre-assigned well-in-advance, and equipped with an outdated copy of The People's Voice, forcefully as my last resource end product, always stuck in my rear pocket.

Back twenty years ago, in Taubinit, I had written several short stories and a bunch a poems, but at the very first time, I received a pre-rejection, a friendly advice "not right for us". I was living with the awareness that I was enjoying my teenage days in the best possible place of Zentana, the capital, - Taubinit. So I knew exactly what to do, I didn't push the envelope further. An official rejection could have been disastrous, at least with the sole repercussion, a permanent change of my residence address.

Two decades later, I still write tales and poems; some of them about a wacky, dreamy city kid turned into a suburban adult, and sometimes my writings resemble a bit author's life and travels. Now, I use any kind of reliable mail service to send my stories, when and where I can afford. That very first rejection kept me going. I have received a lot of rejection slips from dozens of book and magazine publishers, and few times I have received from them handwritten short notes which sounded as a subdue praise. - "We like part of your story; we would like to see more of your things." No matter what, my heart bounced from joy and hope; somebody had paid attention, cared and read my tale, and that kept me going.

Nowadays, I'm in good company, I'm a member of the society of waiting-to-be-published authors. The years of acceptance or rejection is an indication neither of successes or failures for writers like us, we look at each other as ultimate arbiters, we are almost like a mutual admiration society. We compete fiercely trying to outdo each other, we inspire each other, we envy each other, we emulate each other, we are critical of each other, we admire each other, and at the end, we are completely dependent on each other. It is a wonderful thing to be in a society, where you believe that all your friends are geniuses.


The society of waiting-to-be published authors meets at Starbucks or Barnes a Noble lounges, in East Village, Tribeca or somewhere else, where a coffee mocha costs a mere $2.50, without the need of a flashlight or a genius cab driver. We take long walks, or after our daily workload, we throw ourselves deadly tired in a subway train; we need to save the money for the brand name, - Starbucks. Sitting in a well-lit lounge, we read each others waiting-to-be published poems and novels, having preserved for another day the power of the ultimate arbiters.
You sense a strange enthusiasm and hope amongst us, in the midst of the giants of commerce merger frenzy. Long ago, all the major journals and publishers with few exceptions(there are few that still publish thoughtful books)converted their literary and artistic religion to diet, sex, celebrity and the merry jingle of silly coins. They are too exhausted to dream anything else but cash.


Not chassed by the monies, we authors/publishers of waiting-to-be published books are free from any silly temptation to write for the insatiable consuming mob. We are blessed in a very special way, in our poems and tales, in our small universe; we can attempt to tell the truth, we can dream freely. In a time of emptiness, our tiny universe is thriving; our work is getting better in quantity and quality. Why? Because nobody wants to read us. We are blessed in our loneliness with our prerogative; sitting in a well-lit lounge having a $2.50 cap of coffee (cappuccino, latte, macchiato, mocha, etc.) and reading to our genius friends our latest work. My favorite heroine-artist Janis Joplin would have said, -"There is nothing left to lose." It sounds so true, no money here at all, and this is the ultimate freedom.


So in a last note, if you are interested in glitz and buzz, we are not the right party to stop. Just pass by and don't stop. But, if you are a pilgrim, looking for a taste of hilarious as much as holy of yet waiting-to-be published authors our door is always open.