Skip to main content

O Driver, My Driver

Imitation, they say, is the sincerest form of flattery.  In the case of writing, literary nods are also forms of acknowledgment.  “O Driver, My Driver,” has just appeared at Exterminating Angel Press: The Magazine.  And it is a nod to Walt Whitman.

I realized that “O Captain, My Captain,” was a tribute to Abraham Lincoln.  I understand Lincoln to be, perhaps for the last time, a president who stood for the common man.  Few after Lincoln would rise from humble beginnings to the presidency.  Soon it would become the office of the rich and high born.

For many of us, life is work.  In my particular case, it is a life of commuting as well as working.  I sent this little story out to a few places that didn’t understand the pathos involved.  I make no fun of Lincoln; in fact, the drivers of my buses are in many ways literally and figuratively, my captain.

Climbing aboard a bus before dawn many months of the year, a passenger cannot help but feel indebted.  At least I can’t.  On the bus, however, I see other passengers verbally attack drivers.  This is sometimes a problem in a more physical way.  My transit company puts warning posters on buses stating that physical attacks on drivers will be prosecuted.  I’m on the side of the driver.

The small people, it seems to me, are those who seldom receive acknowledgement.  Abraham Lincoln knew that small people count.  His own drive to become president, in no small measure, reflected that.  We seldom find politicians who care about the rest of us any more.

Will any bus drivers read my little story?  Likely not.  Will any fellow commuters?  I doubt it.  Tributes are funny that way.  We write to honor someone, but the voice of the honoree is not expected to be among those nodding back to the writer.  Good writers, I hope, sometimes disappear in the the background.


“O Driver, My Driver,” is a true story, in one respect.  It offers a profound truth from the point of view of the passenger, the one who is out of control.  Too often, the point of view of the common person is forsaken for that of an action hero.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Working Through It

  The thing about being a working writer is you don’t have time.   Between working nine-to-five and trying to eat and sleep, and write, of course, the week is shot.   Weekends are spent doing the errands that you can’t do during the week. I should probably have known better than to join a local writers’ group.   Their meetings, although only once a month, are all-day affairs on a Saturday.   I generally don’t have all day Saturday to spare.   I work all week and I need groceries and the occasional Target run.   And I haven’t yet learned to go a week without eating. This is actually the third writers’ group I’ve joined.   One was not too far from home, but not terribly helpful.   They met on Saturdays, but in the morning only.   Nobody seemed interested in what I was writing, so I stopped going. The second one was about an hour away.   They also met on Saturdays.   Their big thing was having lunch together after the meeting. ...

Patterns

  There’s a pattern I’m noticing.   For fiction publishers.   Even if you aim low you’ll find it a struggle.   Part of the reason is the pattern. Lots of websites list publishers.   The smaller, hungrier presses either eventually close or get to a place where they require an agent to get in.   That’s the kiss of death. Although my stories have won prizes, and been nominated for prizes, I can’t get an agent interested.   I’ve queried well over a hundred, so the agent route is one of diminishing returns.   This too is a pattern. Back to the smaller presses.   I check many lists.   What I write, you see, is highly idiosyncratic.   It’s literary but it’s weird.   Publishers don’t know what to do with it.   If a smaller press published stuff like this, I’d find it. The pattern includes writers who never get discovered.   Ironically, a number of editors of fiction literary magazines (mostly online) tell me they enjoy my wor...

Creative Righting

  Rejection of my writing is a rejection of my imaginative world.   That’s why I was cheered by the acceptance of one of my stories this week.   That makes number 31. I’ve been working on a lot of fiction lately, even as nonfiction book number 6 is going to press.   The ideas are still there, and bizarre as ever, but publishing venues just aren’t welcoming. The other day I had lunch with a professor whose wife is also a professor.   She just had her first novel published, and so he pointed me to her indie publisher.   I went to their website to learn that they’re closed to submissions.   I have to admit that my latest accepted story, “Creative Writing Club,” was probably given the green light because I know the editor.   That seems like a pretty dicey way to get any notice, doesn’t it?   You have to know the right people even in the low circulation world. My fiction is difficult to classify.   It’s got speculative elements to it.   ...