A week or so back, I received an email, from the contact page. (That’s how it works, by the way, if you want to contact me. I have that “comments” thing but it doesn’t work. What you say to eliza, stays with eliza.)

This email reads, redacted for my correspondent’s privacy (and with her permission):

"Hi Elizabeth,

I hope I have the right person, although I don't imagine there are too many writers with the same three names as yours.

I have been searching for an article you wrote … titled "Sultry Like Me." I have one copy that I have saved all these years that is quite old and worn and would like to replace it. I have tried Cosmo's site and they do not appear to have archives. If you have it on file I would greatly appreciate you sending it to me. The information in that piece went miles for me in the way of self esteem and quite frankly, is an integral part of who I am today. Even if it is unavailable, for that I thank you.”

Somebody out there has saved all these years a piece I wrote for Cosmo? Back then I was a smartass just out of college with a just-published novel taking a gamble on the hope that writing success was just around the corner and that I would never have to bury myself in an office. I was busy writing my epic novel and at the behest of my (then) agent, writing what I thought of as “fluff” for women’s magazines.

An editor of one of those women’s magazines took me to lunch (and I was literally so hungry that I relished those lunches) to probe my dry, witty, sarcastic mind for more pieces. She asked what my novel was about. In retrospect, I know what she wanted to hear:

Spunky Everygirl Searches for Mr. Right.

But I wasn’t writing that, so I told her the truth – my novel was about a chaos physicist studying the patterns in the game of baseball, while finding those same patterns in his own relationships. Also, life and loss and love and Shakespeare and stuff.

The editor looked at me hard. “Are you familiar with the term `high concept’?”

I replied, “You mean, like, `Shark terrorizes Long Island community’?”

She asked for the check. I heard my career snap like a breadstick. She killed my next two commissioned pieces through her assistant. (“I honestly don’t know why she’s not calling you back. And I’m not being evasive.”)

The thing is, that editor (not from Cosmo, by the way) has probably forgotten that lunch, just as I had forgotten “Sultry Like Me,” which a gentle reader from cyberspace says it is an integral part of who she is today.

So many morals here that I barely know how to address them:

It is daunting to realize how our every exchange is so fraught with power and tenderness. We never know who we touch or how we touch them.

Labels: Cosmopolitan, getting thanks, giving thanks, Sultry Like Me, women's magazines

posted by Elizabeth at 2:03 PM