The first sentence of the press release read: “Bold Strokes Books is pleased to announce the acquisition of Larry Benjamin's new short story collection, Damaged Angels, scheduled for release in 2012 from Bold Strokes Heatstroke Editions.” I was rushing to get ready to drive up to New York to visit my parents but the words held me in place, unable to leave. I just sat staring at the email. Of course I’d known it was coming—I’d signed the contract a few weeks before but still…

I’d been so worried about this one. I’d sent the manuscript out just after Carina Press released What Binds Us. This book was, I knew, very different from What Binds Us and that difference was deliberate. I’ve never been good repeating myself, at coloring inside the lines. Instead, I tend to soar when given room, freedom. I intended to soar with Damaged Angels, to discover new voices, new territories: “The 13 stories in this collection give voice to the invisible, the damaged: the drug addicts and hustlers, the mentally ill, the confused, and the men who fall in love with them…”

The first publisher I submitted Damaged Angels to politely declined it saying it was good but “too literary for our audience.” I was determined not to get depressed, would instead vet my next publisher more carefully. I decided to rewrite my synopsis when I sent it to Bold Strokes Books. Now—I don’t think I’m alone here —I hate writing synopses (I had to look up the plural of synopsis. Thank you dictionary.com). I mean really, I’ve written a book here that’s thousands of words long and you want me to summarize it in a few paragraphs? What’s up with that?

As always I wanted to write simply:

Dear [insert name of would-be-publisher]

I have written a book. It is quite a good book, I think, way too good to summarize in [insert number of paragraphs] so why don’t you just read the whole manuscript and let me know what you think?

Sincerely

[insert name of destined-to-remain-unpublished-author here]

Instead, I thought long and hard about how to explain these stories were borne of experience, of joy and pain, deep, unstoppable as the ocean? These stories were inspired by past relationships, some good, some not-so-good but from each I learned something—about myself, about him, about how the world around us operated. Out of experience comes learning. In the telling, I hope to teach.

I remember one early boyfriend repeatedly breaking my heart, back when it was still breakable, with his serial cheating. After one particularly tender reconciliation he rolled over and said, “You know I love you more than anybody else.”

Sensing a “but” I asked, “But?”

“You’re not good looking enough to hold my attention.”

Wait! My failure to be handsome was responsible his failure to remain faithful? That was an epiphany for me. I wasn’t handsome, never would be, but I was smart and kind and loyal. The relationship limped on for a few months and then I walked away. Not because I didn’t think he would stop cheating but because I didn’t care and I thought somehow I should. Years later he wrote me that he still loved me and wanted to give “us” another shot. He went on to write that this time around he probably wouldn’t cheat on me because “all my other boyfriends are dead.”

I wanted to write back, “I wouldn’t get involved with you, if you were the last man on earth,” but didn’t. I was seeing the Mr by then, which he knew, and wrote back and said I would never cheat on the Mr, “he deserves better than to be cheated on.”

And so do I.

As Nietzsche said (and Kelly Clarkson has no doubt immortalized),”What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” So I’ll keep on living, hopefully getting stronger—and writing—until something, most likely my next synopsis, kills me.