On one fine January morning in 2005, I submitted an article to a major Irish newspaper (where I was raised) in hopes of getting
published. I received a quick reply from the editor. He enjoyed the piece and wanted to discuss it further and suggested I call him
soon.
“Success!”
I took a deep breath and dialed his number. But the phone lines were badly affected by the heavy winter storm the night before. Our
phone call became a series of unrelated words and peculiar sounds. A full sentence was impossible. After a few minutes, I heard a long
sigh on the other end.
“He’s thinks I’m a time waster,” I thought, staring out the window and hating the magical snowy scene. I felt mortified.
Knowing I wasn’t getting anywhere, I thanked him graciously, bleeps between words, and said my good-bye. Then I sent an e-mail thanking
him for his time.
The newspaper was one of only two major daily newspapers in Ireland and it was the biggest seller. I was determined to get into its
pages, so I tried again in the summer.
The editor loved the subject matter but suggested I approach the editor of the Saturday magazine, instead.
“Elation!”
I had another chance, and I was excited. But that bubble soon burst when the Saturday magazine editor didn’t like my subject. She firmly
rejected the article a few weeks later.
Then, in November, I read an article, in the same paper, bemoaning the rocketing cost of dining out in Ireland. The ludicrous prices
were just incredible. I could scarcely believe what I was reading. I felt living in France was like living in a fairy tale. I had the
most wonderful life in France. I could eat inexpensive, fabulous food, in places where children were always welcome, and they wouldn’t
dare charge for tap water.
For two days I thought, wrote, deleted, cut, pasted, walked in the hills and the villages of Ariege Pyrenees, and talked to French
friends about food. I even studied local restaurant menus to get all my facts right.
Knowing in my heart that coming up to the Christmas holiday season is the worst possible time to submit to a major newspaper, I took a
deep breathe and carried on.
“This is going to work. My submission will stand out.”
Satisfied with my work, I pressed the send button.
“The editor requested a picture of me to accompany the piece!”
Not only did the editor like the piece, but he added that unless some serious news broke over the holiday season, my piece would appear
in the review section on December 24th.
I jumped up and raced around, changed into a long black skirt, huge black cape, put on suede boots, grabbed a bright red shoulder bag
and scarf, piled my hair up and donned my shades. I then drove off to have ten pictures of me taken outside one of the loveliest,
ancient restaurants in our area.
I e-mailed the paper about thirty minutes later and waited.
And that's how, having adopted the “if at first you don't succeed, try, try again” motto, I appeared with nearly a full page spread in
the Irish Independent on Christmas Eve, 2005.
Third time lucky maybe, but I still reckon that just like that famous golfer‘s remark, “The more I try, the luckier I get.”
About The Author:
Jane Shortall, a freelance writer (busy working on two books: one fiction, one non-fiction), is of Irish heritage and
now resides in the hills of southern France, near the Pyrenees.
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