Yesterday’s mail brought the unwelcome news that my book about Willard Espy “in its current form is not one that fits the current WSU Press publishing goals.” The letter, while disappointing in the extreme, contained good news as well as bad. Or at least it seemed so to me.
Editor Robert Clark went on to say, “What you have given us is a charming, personal history of the Espy family and the town of Oysterville, with Willard at the center of the story.” YES! I’m so glad they ‘got’ that! That was the point of the book.
In fact, Mr. Clark’s description is a very succinct version of what I, myself, had written in my initial proposal to WSU Press: “Espy’s Own: Willard of Oysterville” is part biography, part memoir, part recollection and part historical narrative. It is the story of author Willard Richardson Espy’s relationship to Oysterville, the tiny southwest Washington village where he grew up in the early decades of the twentieth century and where he was to spend many of the most important intervals of his next 88 years.
My intent (and the main reason for submitting the book to this particular publisher) was to write Willard’s biography in such a way that it would become a companion piece to Dear Medora: Child of Oysterville’s Forgotten Years. That book was published by WSU Press in 2007. Unfortunately, it has sold sparingly; it hasn’t flown off the shelves. It is definitely a “niche book” and, no doubt, was an unusual choice for an academic press. Perhaps the fact that they had a different editor then had bearing on that decision.
According to reviewers, the charm of Dear Medora is its personal touch. It gives readers an insider’s view of the Espy family and of Oysterville in the early twentieth century. Ironically, this was at the heart of Mr. Clark’s objection to the manuscript about Willard: “These personal memories, combined with family stories and excerpts from family correspondence, have a rather narrow focus, and no doubt would be of most interest to family and friends.”
He goes on to suggest that I consider rewriting the book along the lines of a “more traditional biography” or, barring that choice, to look at the possibility of self-publishing. Or, as a third alternative, he says, WSU could serve as a “book packager” providing “editing, design, layout, and production services, and deliver to you any number of books you wish to distribute.”
Of course, the bottom line is money. If Dear Medora had made more money for them… If marketing and distribution weren’t so spendy… If I had the financial ability to self-publish a book with the look and feel I envision… Or, I could bite the bullet and rewrite.
Perhaps my thoughts will clarify as my disappointment dissipates…
I grew up thinking of January as a long, dark penance between Christmas and my birthday at the end of February. These days it seems even darker and, actually, it is, given the contrast in day length between the Bay Area of California and Oysterville. But now I can substitute “dreary” for “long.” As I age, the days pass more quickly but they are definitely colder, rainier and grayer here on the northwest coast.
Yesterday on NPR’s “Weekend Edition Sunday” host Rachel Martin talked with book critic Ron Charles of The Washington Post about the literary and linguistic phenomena which have sprung from the ‘romantic’ (some say “soft porn”) novel, Fifty Shades of Grey. They talked about all the spin-offs – the articles, commentaries, and books that are Fifty Shades of Nearly Everything – of Tax Reform, of Grey Matter, of Santa, of Crazy.
I could start things off with this excerpt from my Uncle Willard Espy’s 1977 book, Oysterville, Roads to Grandpa’s Village:
Until his death in 1999, my uncle Willard Espy was the go-to person in our family with regard to Espy and Richardson history. Willard had spent three-quarters of his life chasing our forebears back through time – in some cases back to the sixteenth century.
In the years since that time, Ralph has often referred (with absolute clarity of memory) to what he saw and read during his short access to the files. I, on the other hand, am consistently fuzzy with regard to names, dates, and relationships, though I have spent years working with the same information. So, a month or so ago, when I became satisfied that my memoir/biography of Willard was nearing first-draft stage, I asked Ralph if he would be willing to read it, particularly with regard to accuracy of family information.
I can hear my mother’s admonishing voice saying, “When you speak, speak the truth but don’t always speak.” I’m quite sure that she would consider any thoughts following the words “I told you so” right up there with what should remain unsaid. But… I always was a ‘handful’ when it came to following good advice. And, having long since passed the three-quarters of a century mark, I’m tired of ‘sucking it up’ and ‘moving on’ and all those other well-meaning but totally inane bits of advice.
Sunday’s performance at the 75-seat Fort Columbia had 35 audience members by one count, 25 by another. Of those I knew in the audience, at least four had come from the north end of the peninsula because they’d been otherwise occupied on Saturday and couldn’t attend in Oysterville. Another five or six were ‘worker bees’ who were at both shows, anyway. Several were relatives of the cast members and had also been at both performances. One woman was a friend of mine from Astoria. That didn’t leave a very big “hoard” from the south end of the peninsula.
For one of my bits – the one where the Reverend and Mrs. Crouch approach center stage together in the second act – I was to ‘find’ the blue light. A piece of masking tape was placed on the floor to assist me. Okay. However, when the time came – after intermission and a set change—a table covered my tape and, in order to “find” my light, I would have had to stand on the table.
This is one of those days I wish I could clone myself. No matter how hard I try, I cannot quite visualize what the audience is seeing when I am on stage and it’s me they’re looking at. Of course, in the case of this weekend and our two performances of “Shoalwater Shenanigans,” my fondest desire is that they don’t see me at all.
Once again, “Shoalwater Shenanigans” is all costumed and rehearsed and ready for presentation. It’s a new production of last year’s very well-received show about long dead people of the peninsula. I say “new,” not only because with live theater every show is new, but also because this year’s “Shenanigans” features some interesting cast changes plus one additional venue.
I think that I am one of the few people who really 
On Saturday the cast of “Shoalwater Shenanigans” gathered over at the church to begin rehearsing for our November performances. It was our first get-together and run-through of the show in almost a year. Some of us were letter-perfect in our lines; some of us not so much! I was somewhere in between. On a scale of one to ten, I’d give myself a seven.
One of the popular features of our summer Music Vespers programs here each summer Sunday is the five minute welcome toward the beginning that has come to be called the ‘Oysterville Moment.’ It was begun by my mother when she and dad started the first vespers series back in 1978 and, at first, it was just a time to introduce the minister and other participants.
Louise Espy, my uncle Willard’s wife, outlived him by twelve years. She died last November in New York not far from where she had been born and had lived for most of her ninety-two years, Her children, Johnny and Penny, kept us informed about her memorial service which was held at the prestigious Century Association and Penny, a teacher, said that in the summer she would bring Louise’s ashes to Oysterville for burial in the family plot.