Skip to main content

Fish Stories Find


Sometimes you never know where things will lead, if anywhere. And yet . . . there is an inexplicable impulse, a vibe, a premonition perhaps, that drives you on. I was browsing in the then-new (now closed) Waterstone's book shop off Michigan Avenue in Chicago. Spring 1995, standing before the sleek black shelves and colorful book jackets. I had recently come to the end of a creative writing class that I'd been taking in the evenings through Northwestern's University College (their continuing education department). The class had me thinking for the first time about the possibility of writing fiction, attempting to get published in the genre. And of course my instructor encouraged me to get my hands on a bunch of literary magazines and start reading, researching the market, requesting submission guidelines. It's the same thing anyone will hear who takes even a half-step in the direction of fiction, at least where short stories are concerned. So, there I was, on the outside of the publishing scene at the time, but wanting an inside view, a clue to how things worked in Chicago's literary scene. I scanned the rack of journals displayed at Waterstone's, and there was one that caught my eye immediately—first because of its cover art, a piece called "Magazine Model" by Bill Rock. I admit to being one of those consumers swayed by the outward appearance of a book. I flipped through the contents, read some first paragraphs or stanzas of stories or poems, liked what I read: a prose poem by Maureen Seaton, a story by Eric Charles May, and others, most names unknown to me. I turned once more to the front of the book and started to read the introductory letter from the editor-in-chief, Amy Davis. I remember thinking, I could have written that! Meaning that the tone, the voice as much as the message, was in complete harmony with my own thoughts about stories, who tells them, and how satisfying it is to read works that can be either calming or so provocative as to be uncomfortable—either way, you know you are thinking, feeling, and wonderfully alive when you read good writing. I had allotted a budget for one publication, and this was the one I could not put down and therefore purchased. The volume was called Fish Stories: Collective I, a "literary annual of fiction and poetry." I devoured the collection at home, then got out a highlighter and started going over the contributor's list, marking all the Chicago connections, noting where the writers were working, what writing programs they might have been teaching at, and so forth. I reread the editor's intro, noticed her entreaty to keep the book, to carry it around, and to "maybe even write us a letter." I highlighted the address. I read the ads in the back of the journal and noticed the same address popping up for something called WorkShirts Writing Center that offered fiction workshops. I decided to write that letter. All these years later, I do not remember what I wrote. Certainly I praised the collection, which was a new publishing venture, and said something about how sympathetic and compelling I found the editor's vision. I asked for an informational meeting, the opportunity to ask questions about how the collection came about, to find out more about WorkShirts as well. I may have asked for the chance to get involved, or else that came later. I did get my meeting with Amy Davis, and she and I hit it off immediately. The next thing I knew, I was assisting the editorial team and learning about the process of putting together a litmag, A to Z. I got involved with production, and the publisher, Lee Nagan, trained me in prepress document preparation. I also found a supportive writing group at WorkShirts, and began to hone my own craft at night, after my day job. I was energized by the group of editors, and found all kinds of extra hours to devote to the second year's collection. After that, I became a full-fledged fiction editor, and eventually also the production manager. Fish Stories folded after four annual publications. But the professional connections have turned into lifelong friendships, and even now, under other imprints, I work with many of the same people from those days. I think it's fair to say that everything I do in publishing today came out of those early days in Chicago—days for which I will be forever grateful. Like it was yesterday, although it now counts as nearly fifteen years ago, I recall standing in Waterstone's, completely unable to predict the direction my life would take as a result, but still somehow knowing enough to trust the intuition that told me, looking at that image of a face surrounded by blue and by the pattern of what could be reflections of water and light, that this was a portrait of destiny calling, and that I must reach out to grasp it.

From the department of "Where are they now?": Amy Davis is the founder of a new community and workspace solution, Writers WorkSpace ( . . . where writing works!) in Chicago; Lee Nagan still runs his full-service printing, graphics, and direct mail business, Fisheye Graphic Services; another former Fish Stories editor, Stacy Bierlein, today is with OV Books (along with FS contributor, Gina Frangello) and is also serving as executive director of a new publishing company, Emerald Bay Books . . . both presses I have the pleasure of working with as well.

Comments

Maria Verivaki said…
you never know where things may lead!
this is wht i expect from blogging - to go somewhere that i didnt expect to
as for reading something that i remember immediately made me think that i could have written that, this applies tome too: i read 'small island' by andrea levy, and by the end of it, that's what i thought too!

Popular posts from this blog

Ships (Westport, CT)

I graduated from high school in 1987, and although I had applied to college (one only, I knew what I wanted) and gotten my acceptance, I deferred matriculation for a year. It was for the best. Teen angst and anger were peaking, I was sick of school, and really it would've been a waste for me to go straight through when all I could think of was living on my own in the "real" world. Well, I got a dose of that. A good dose of what I could expect to do with a high school diploma and—let it be said—a bunch of shifty slackers for roommates, whose only ambition was to get wasted and stay that way all day. Except that I was not a slacker; that's something I never have been. And even if I had wanted to party—illegally, mind you, I was still underage for beer let alone the rest of what was out there to be had—well, there wasn't the time or energy for it. After a somewhat lost summer following graduation, I set about getting a job, a checking account, and an apartment, tryin

Touch Club

Another experience to come out of my father's L.A. years with Playboy was involvement with a private, membership-based Beverly Hills supper club called Touch. The connections are fuzzy in my mind. I always want to say that the club was backed financially by Playboy Enterprises, but I'm not sure this is accurate. It may have just been that one of the club's owners belonged to Hefner's entourage—being one of the many who made it their business to stop by the Playboy mansion on a regular basis. Or perhaps he (I forget his name, despite having heard it regularly at one point in my life) was a salaried employee of the company, linked somehow to club/casino operations? However it came into being, the Touch Club opened in the early 1980s (perhaps it was the year 1980; it was eventually sold in 1986), and we dined there sometimes, my parents and I; this was always a special occasion I got to dress up for. I don't remember the menu, but based on the intended clientele, I'

Polly's Pies

Today I made a fresh strawberry pie. Maybe it's the wishful thinking of a transitional season: it's spring officially, but you don't quite feel it yet, at least not in New York. Making a fruit pie can't force sunny spring weather to come any quicker, but it still tastes good, and the color of the pie, glazed with a fruit/sugar/cornstarch reduction, is a cheerful anecdote for the often rainy and gray sky in early April. I used to have my paternal grandmother's recipe, but looking for it this afternoon, I couldn't find it. I ended up substituting a recipe from another trusted Southerner, Lee Bailey, whose Southern Desserts cookbook has been on my shelf from the time I first had my own kitchen. The pie came out great—actually, it was better than my grandmother's version (or my misfired attempts at her version, should I be the one at fault). But all this thinking about, making, now writing about pie has brought up another landmark of memory: Polly's Pies in