Nobody Reads This Page – “Interview”

 

c.2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” – Ray Bradbury

 

I thought hard about the craft of writing recently, after receiving a phone message that at first appeared to be unwanted spam. My cellular device chirped with a notification, while I was having coffee and toast early in the morning. I had to reach for my reading glasses to catch an accurate glimpse of this intrusive jolt. But after rereading it several times, my eyes focused sharply enough to comprehend. With surprise, I concluded that the unsolicited text actually looked to be genuine.

 

“Mr. Ice, I am a recruiter for a publishing house in New York City. Some of your online material has come to the attention of our editors. I must say that your approach to creating content is unique, if not exactly conventional. We normally review work by published authors or media figures who are notable in the field of journalism. But the staff here was interested enough in your offerings to reach out, directly. If you would like a telephone interview, please respond at the number included with this notice. - Sincere Regards, Rina Coppolo, Director of Resource Acquisition for Empire Press, Inc.”

 

I waited a day or two before sending a reply. Some hesitation about responding to an uninvited call of this kind made me slow to answer. Yet after pondering a litany of excuses, I relented at last. When I finally clicked on the contact link, a traditional ring sounded in my ear. Then, a helpful woman purred a sweet tone of welcome. I figured it must be a secretary, answering calls from a corporate switchboard.

 

“This is the office of Rina Coppolo. Will you hold please?”

 

My hand was trembling enough that I spilled coffee on the end-table by my chair.

 

“Of course. Thank You!”

 

I wanted to hang up before having a real confab. But curiosity kept me on the line. If nothing else, I guessed that making a gesture in return would give me another story to tell. Even if it became a misguided adventure.

 

After a couple of minutes, there was an electronic squawk, and a bell chime. The new voice resonated with clarity and importance. I could tell that it must belong to someone with lots of responsibilities, and little time.

 

“This is Rina, how may I help you today?”

 

I cleared my throat and coughed.

 

“My name is Rodney Ice, I live in the area of Cleveland, Ohio. You sent a message to my cellular phone, it was through an e-mail link I have included on one of my blogs. I pilot an online gazette called the Geauga Independent...”

 

The company manager brightened with recognition upon hearing my name said aloud.

 

“Ice! That’s wonderful, we all thought it was a clever pen name, sir! Bravo! It made us consider the frosty climate of winter. My dash thermometer said four degrees, driving to our headquarters this morning!”

 

I laughed audibly, while covering my face.

 

“Actually, that’s on my birth certificate. Not a conjured-up handle meant to amuse readers. But thank you anyway...”

 

Ms. Coppolo sighed and regathered her composure.

 

“Okay then, I’ll remember that in the future! With respect to your written material, my editorial team was wondering about your formal education. What kind of study made you become a word hawk, Mr. Ice?”

 

I felt my face turning red.

 

“Well, I grew up at the knee of a Church of Christ preacher...”

 

The professional editor and recruiter reacted with astonishment.

 

“CHURCH OF WHAT? I NEVER HEARD OF THAT GROUP. IS IT LIKE BEING CATHOLIC, OR METHODIST? HOW WOULD THAT GIVE YOU SKILLS IN THIS FIELD?”

 

I chortled to myself and leaned forward, over the wireless device.

 

“Umm... it probably wouldn’t be useful to explain the pertinent details. Except to say that my father had some theological volumes published by College Press in Joplin, Missouri. He also wrote all articles for magazines and newsletters associated with his non-denominational fellowship. I absorbed knowledge from him by watching and listening, not by being taught...”

 

Coppolo sounded somewhat confused. I imagined her rattling jewelry and fiddling with a mug of pens on her desk.

 

“So then, you have a degree in literature or some related area, because of his inspiration?”

 

I turned a deeper shade of red.

 

“No, no degree. I was in an apprenticeship program through Cornell University, studying video production and broadcasting. I also had a mentor who was an editor with a local news weekly. She provided technical help, such as proper grammar and formatting. I needed pointers sometimes. Otherwise, I just paid attention at home and learned on my own. Actually, a lot of energy came from the realm of music, not necessarily the discipline of noted scribblers...”

 

The publishing steward was breathy and befuddled.

 

“Well, perhaps that would explain the style you project. One person here thought you had a musical sensibility to your writing. Is that accurate?”

 

I nodded and smiled with a sense of accomplishment.

 

“That’s interesting really, I had an interview with Easyriders Magazine in the 1990’s, and the fellow in charge said he had the same notion...”

 

She had lost her train of thought.

 

“EASYRIDERS? I NEVER HEARD OF IT! WERE YOU JUST EXPERIMENTING WITH IDEAS? OR WERE YOU HOPELESSLY LOST, AND TRYING TO FIND YOUR DIRECTION?”

 

My nose tingled enough that I rubbed it with one hand.

 

“It’s a motorcycle rag you know, custom choppers and individualism. All of that related scene. I was with a different monthly called Biker Lifestyle for five years. There were plenty of motorized steeds in our household, during my childhood. It meshed well with the Rock & Roll sounds I heard from our hi-fi while growing up, intellectually. Those interests came together in features about living on the open road...”

 

Ms. Coppola must have been completely stumped by my honest testimony.

 

“So, music and bikes helped make you a creative scribe? How odd! I’ve never heard that from anyone else! Our other authors have studied the use of language intensely, and perfected their manuscripts by getting a real education! Your experience sounds random, to say the least!”

 

I had to force myself to reply. The words came out in a whisper.

 

“Well, the custom chopper thing got me going again. I used to write poems and silly escapades as a kid. Those tales came later, to revive what I had done before. To bring back my passion for the work. Then I got a gig at a county newspaper here in Ohio. I had always admired columnists like Mike Royko, Dave Barry, and Erma Bombeck...”

 

I heard my new friend huffing for oxygen.

 

“MY GOD, WHAT A DIVERSE GROUP! I MUST SAY THAT IT EXPLAINS A LOT ABOUT YOUR PERSONAL EVOLUTION AS A CREATIVE WRITER. WE’VE BEEN SCRATCHING OUR HEADS TRYING TO GUESS WHAT MADE IT ALL HAPPEN. THANK YOU FOR BEING SO CANDID!”

 

I had run out of anecdotes. My mouth felt unusually dry.

 

“In don’t have a wall of certificates and awards here at home. To be frank, I don’t associate with a lot of artisan types. They often seem too self-important and pompous. I prefer the company of blue-collar folk. People who till the soil or build things to make a buck. Then drink away their cares with friends and neighbors...”

 

My distant contact wheezed slightly. I must have said something that crossed an invisible line in her consciousness.

 

“Midwestern minds perceive things differently, Mr. Ice. We’re all aware of that, at Empire Press. Don’t take that as a word of judgment though, it’s just a truism for the industry. We need all sorts of input to be successful in the marketplace. That is why I reached out to you!”

 

I did not know what else to say. Our conversation seemed to have reached a sort of natural conclusion.

 

“So, what kind of opportunities would I have with your organization?”

 

Coppola hummed and whistled until her brain was able to click back into gear.

 

“I personally appreciate what you’ve put online, everything sounds authentic and earnest. A bit like the Beat Era icons. That kind of straightforward prose is what we need to satisfy readers who think our titles are too stale and predictable. But I’ll just say it bluntly, your material would be a hard sell in the editorial boardroom. This company has a tradition of lifting up educated thinkers. Those who have learned how to approach creating content, intelligently.”

 

My belly tightened and growled. Yet her admission had me grinning.

 

“My schoolhouse was a basement office, with an Underwood typewriter, and a wall of books. Or maybe, a garage filled with car parts, antique radios, and vintage tools in a red cabinet. Maybe even a closet full of guitars and other plectrum instruments. That is where I got my education. Does it mean I became intelligent as a result? I don’t know for sure, but that wandering path definitely kept my attention. I never got bored...”

 

The bookbinding representative sounded hoarse. I suspected that she had begun to question the wisdom of her initial offer to make contact.

 

“Thank you, sir! We will be in touch. Have a great day and try to stay warm!”

 

 

The preceding document was inspired by a junk text on my iPhone, that offered some sort of nebulous business opportunity. I figured it must be suspicious from the outset, yet in the aftermath, wondered what might have happened if I actually responded. The story above is my version of that daydream, offered in long form.