Forever and a day…

The writer’s life is, as we all know, one of ups and downs. But sometimes the up and the down come at the one time. I received an email recently from a well known anthology series – one of my stories is being considered for inclusion in one of their books.
Great news? I thought so, until I followed the link to their contract. In the first clause - I kid you not – the company wants to possess this little story “ throughout the universe in perpetuity, and in any advertising and publicity related thereto.” It also advises me that my “minor child’’ is included in this all embracing clause, with the rights also becoming the property of their successors.
I had heard of these `forever and a day’ contracts, but this is the first time I’ve actually seen one. My mind is boggling. Plodding through the legalese I can see they are not buying my eternal soul – it’s just the one story. But it’s the reference to my ‘minor child’ that really burns me up. What is that about? It is conceivable that someday my daughter Kathy (the youngest and therefore the minor, and an artist in her own right) may want to base an artwork of her own around this little story – and she will find that this small part of her family history no longer belongs to the family. In fact, she will be sued for using it.
This kind of editorial rights grab greed isn’t new, but taken to this extent, it is frankly ludicrous. What do the buyers think to gain from it? I suppose there is some outside chance that the story may be picked up for a made-for-TV movie, starring some fading but dignified star of the old school, and some up and coming desperate starlet. But honestly, this isn’t Shakespeare. It’s not worth much to the buyers – the offer is $200 – but apparently they think the stories they buy have an outside chance of being worth a mint some day, and the `forever and a day’ rights grab means that they, and their descendants going into infinity, can profit from it.
The only way to treat contracts like this is to refuse to sign them. Anthology editors can’t write their own stories, that is why they invite writers to submit. With no stories to publish, they will soon change their tune and concoct a more reasonable contract. I( will not be signing this one, and to make sure this story remains forever and a day in the possession of my family, so they can retell it, write about it, paint it or whatever they want to do with it, I am publishing it here. It’s a grain of salt in the ocean, because this company publishes dozens of anthologies every year and presumably, there are many writers happy to sign away all rights to retelling the story of events that touched them deeply.

MY FATHER’S PEN

By

Gail Kavanagh

After we buried my father, we began the sad process of packing his life away. Everything we touched held a memory, and naturally we planned to sherish those items that held the most emotional connection.
For me, that would be the Parker fountain pen he had used since I was ten years old. But although we searched everywhere, we could not find it.
I had bought my father the pen as a Christmas gift. I saved up all year for it, and my mother helped me choose the beautiful blue and silver pen with the familiar arrow on the cap.
I shall never forget watching my father open his presents on Christmas morning. He always took a long time about it, shaking the box in its bright red and green wrapping and trying to guess what was inside. Funny guesses, that made me laugh out loud.
If the box made no sound, he would pull a face and say, “a pair of socks?” I would cover my mouth to stop the giggles escaping and shake my head.
If it rattled, he would wonder aloud if it was a new pipe and wonder if it had broken - “maybe I can glue it together,” he would say thoughtfully, rattling the box again.
Eventually, he would carefully unwrap the present, peeling back the paper and smoothing it out with maddening slowness. “Good for next year,” he would say.
The year I gave him the pen, this ritual seemed to go on forever. He examined the long, slender box from all sides. He admired the paper – red with golden Christmas bells – and he asked me if I had tied the ribbon myself. When I said I had, he smiled. “Very neat,” he said, “as good as if your mother had tied it.”
Then he rattled the box. Snug in its holder, the pen did not rattle.
“I know what it is,’ he said, pulling a long face. “It’s a tie.”
I burst out laughing. He never wore a tie.
“Then maybe it’s – hm – a letter opener? A fish knife? A drinking straw?” As the guesses became more implausible, I was fairly jumping with impatience.
He took his time about opening it, as if he was savoring every moment. Then the box appeared, with the word Parker on it, and he opened it very slowly and took out the pen.
I knew from the look on his face as he turned it over in his fingers, that this was the best present I had ever bought.
My father had always loved a good pen. He wrote in his journal every night, and signed his business letters with a flowing script. He loved the way a good pen flowed the ink onto the page, the way it snapped shut when he replaced the cap, and slid comfortably into his jacket pocket when he was finished with it. Whenever he took the Parker pen out to sign something, or write in his journal, I felt a glow of pride.
Many years later, when I was grown up and working, I decided it was time he had a new pen. I didn’t have to save up for it, even though the one I chose was far more expensive, black and silver with the familiar arrow on the cap.
I gave it to him for Christmas, and he admired it. By then he was playing the present opening game with his grandchildren, and they were getting as much fun out of the drawn out ritual as I had.
But I noticed, although he was obviously pleased with his spanking new pen, that he placed it in his desk drawer, rather than in his inside jacket pocket where he habitually carried my original gift.
Sadly, there were not to be many more Christmases for my father. His last illness was a sad, drawn out time for all of us. We buried him in his favorite jacket, and his grandchildren threw roses onto the casket.
While I was searching for his old pen, I did find the new one, still in its elegant case, untouched by even a drop of ink.
“He always loved that old pen you gave him,” my mother said, as she gave me the new pen to keep.
But what, I wondered, had become of the first pen? And why had he preferred it? I remembered how proudly he had shown the pen to his friends, telling them how long I had saved up to buy it, going without sweets and comics all year as I put my pocket money away.
Of course – he loved it because of the effort it had taken for me to buy it. He always appreciated such things – the new pen did not have the same emotional connection. All those years he had carried it in his pocket, he had been carrying my love with him
And that, of course, solved the mystery. He had been laid away in his favorite jacket, the one he had worn for years.
The pen was still in the inside pocket, and the thought of that filled my heart with joy.

End

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