Just recently, I wrote a blog post about three things that fly fishing can teach you about being more successful when it comes to submitting for publication. One of the three concepts was the idea of “keeping your fly on the water” – meaning you can’t catch fish if you’re not floating your fly, and you can’t get published if your work is sitting on your laptop.
Then, serendipitously enough, I left for a three-day fly fishing trip with my good friend. We had a decent first day and a half. We each had some fish (though no keepers), and we were having a great time.
On the second night, we were fishing the same stretch of the river. I was downstream from him where some brook trout were rising, but they weren’t much interested in what I was casting. As dusk faded into the darkness of night, I left the river and started along the trail, where I knew my friend would be fishing The Big Bend… or just The Bend as we call it.
The Bend is well-known to us (after 20 years of fishing it) to hold some really good-size brown trout that start feeding off the surface right around 9:30 p.m. For my fishing partner, the second night of our trip was no exception. As I was walking the trail back, my partner yelled to me, “You just missed the fight! I landed a 13 and half-inch brown!”
Just so you know, fishing with a dry fly and a fly rod, that’s a very good-sized fish.
I went back into the river and waded to the bank where he was cleaning the fish on an outcropping of sand. It was a big fish! And everything about my buddy’s demeanor was so upbeat. He was talking fast, smiling, and just elated to have caught such a good fish… his best fish in the over 20-year history of us fishing together.
I tried really hard to be happy for him. I did. But I was struggling. Standing in the dark in the river a few feet from him, I could hide my sullen expression. I had my rod in hand, and I casted a couple half-hearted attempts at The Bend… (but chances were slim to none that another fish would strike after the hole had been so riled up by my buddy’s fight with his fish.)
So I stood, feeling sorry for myself (because I didn't catch a fish)… and then my rod bent over like one of McDonald’s golden arches. “Hey!” I said. It was so dark, my friend didn’t know what was going on. “What?” he said, but then in the halo of his hat’s brim light, he must have seen me standing there clearly struggling with a BIG fish.
I could tell by the force yanking and pulling beneath the surface that this was a good-sized fish. Don’t imagine me as Brad Pitt from A River Runs Through It. I was really pathetic. I was so certain that I was going to blow it… that I was getting this big chance, but I wouldn’t be able to make it happen. I was saying aloud in a high pitched voice to my friend, “I’m going to lose it! I’m going to lose it!”… even as it was still clearly on my line. After I asked (practically begged), my buddy agreed to net the fish for me, so I just had to play it up to the surface (easier said than done) so he could get the net under it.
Some of what was happening I couldn’t see because my pal’s back was in front of me. I saw flashes of the fish here and there on the surface as it thrashed. I knew it was at least a keeper. In fact, I knew it was more than a keeper because my buddy kept saying, “This thing is a pig!”
He eventually scooped it into his net, and brought it to the same sand bank where he’d cleaned his fish. We measured it… and the fish was 16.25 inches long. It was the best fish of my life (and might remain so).
Ok, what does any of this have to do with writing/publishing? Well, first, I am ashamed that I couldn’t be truly elated for my friend that he’d caught such a good fish. I was happy for him, but like with almost anything, there’s a degree of competitiveness. Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, said in an interview once, “A victory for any writer is a victory for all writers.” Same is true for fly fishing. Catching a big fish on a tiny fly attached by dental floss-thin leader is about as likely as making it big as a writer.
When it happens, the moment should be truly celebrated.
I failed there.
But, I guess some of it comes down to what I did with that self-pitying moment. I sulked, but I didn't quit. Somehow, through it all, I still managed to flick my fly into The Bend a few times. I kept going. I kept my fly on the water. The payoff (and there might have been a degree of luck… as there is with publishing too)… I landed the best fish of my life.
None of that would have happened had I not kept my fly on the water!
But, also… and this is important… I didn’t do it alone. If my buddy hadn’t been there to net it for me, I’m not sure I would have landed that fish. That’s some of what fly fishing can teach about publishing too. The publication isn’t truly ours only. People helped us. Someone taught us to read. An aunt gave us books. A teacher encouraged. A professor opened our eyes to something. A friend gave a great beta read. A lot of people helped us “net” that publication.
Publication is nothing to get arrogant about because you likely didn’t make it happen on your own. Just like I thanked my friend several times that night for netting that fish we, upon publication, must take the time to try to thank everyone who helped us make publication happen.
If you find my blog posts instructive, please consider purchasing a copy of my new book of short stories, The Neighborhood Division, as a donated payment for the "class."
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