January 12, 2008 by Tracey S. Rosenberg
January 11 is the day I consider the start of my professional writing career, as it’s the day that – twenty-three (!!!) years ago – I first submitted a story to a magazine.
It got rejected, alas, so I didn’t get to ‘start as you mean to go on’. Still, even if that story had been accepted, eventually something would have fallen at a hurdle. And heaven knows I’ve been persistent enough since 1985; even if there have been some fallow periods, I’ve had at least one publication a year since then. I feel pretty good about that.
At one point, somewhere in the early nineties, I mentioned to my then-boyfriend that my career would always have been with me for longer than anyone I was ever going to be in a relationship with. I suspect it made more sense when I said it at the time, but basically, my writing pre-dates all of my serious romantic relationships. This doesn’t mean they’re second-rate or unimportant – just that in terms of foundations, if you go back far enough, you find an IBM Selectric and a lot of drafts on yellow paper.
(No, I wasn’t deliberately channeling Stevie Smith – it’s just what was around for use as draft typing paper.)