The phone rang at six p.m.  I was supposed to meet my husband and his colleagues at a fancy restaurant downtown for dinner at 6:15. I was running so late that I was trying to iron my clothes while I wore them.  That was with one hand.  With the other hand, I stirred a pot of macaroni and cheese, supper for my kids.

As I picked up my cordless phone from the counter, I noticed that the dead battery light was flashing.  So I headed across the room to the kitchen extension, the one with the very short cord that I had been meaning to replace.

A mellifluous voice came on the line.  A woman said she was calling from a national magazine.  “May I speak with Deborah Prum?”

Oh no, I didn’t have time to deal with a subscription spiel.  But I had just  moved to the South.  Everyone down here accuses us Northerners of being rude.  I needed to shed my Yankee ways.  So I said, “This is she, but I have to tell you I currently receive more magazines than I can…”

“I wanted to talk with you about an idea.”

With my short phone cord, I could barely reach the stove, and the orange, goopy mixture of macaroni and cheese was beginning to burn.  “This really isn’t a very good time.  Could you call back next week?”  Or never.

The woman seemed taken aback.  “Well, I don’t think so.  We have space for your article in our next issue and the deadline is in a week.  I don’t think we have the time to discuss it later.”

“Article?  My heart filled with conflicting emotions—elation because I realized she was an editor—someone finally responding positively to one of my query letters—and panic because I had no idea which query letter.

As a beginning freelancer, my recordkeeping was haphazard at best.  I didn’t quite believe my words would ever see the light of day and my approach reflected that zero confidence.  Two or three times a week, I’d send off queries to various magazines.  As fast as ideas reached my brain, I’d get them down on paper and into the mailbox.  Then, I’d file copies in a cardboard box I kept in the children’s playroom.

While I tried to figure out exactly which letter we were talking about, my three hungry sons had gathered in the kitchen were waiting impatiently for their rations to be distributed.  I gestured wildly, pantomiming writing on paper with a pen.

My oldest son, Nathaniel, stared at me with feigned concern.  Then the pre-pubescent smart aleck turn to his 10-year-old brother, Eric, and said, “Gosh, it seems as if Mom has developed a tremor.”

Eric pretended to look confused.  Then he pointed to the pot on the stove.  The child smiled and made exaggerated eating gestures.

In the meantime, the editor continued talking. “We like your medical crisis idea.”

Medical crisis idea? Now which one would that be:  Lice, the Gift That Keeps on Giving?  Or, Cat Dander, the Unseen Foe?

I took a stab, “Yes, medical crisis.  Well, in which direction would you like me to take the concept?”

“We want 1,500 words on how to walk with a friend through a medical crisis.  Be sure to give practical pointers and get at least two expert quotes.”

By this time, 3-year-old Ian recognized my desperate pleas for a writing implement and gave me a broken orange crayon and half of a paper napkin.  I nodded at him in thanks and began scribbling.

As I took notes, Eric spooned supper into a plastic bowl.  Then he gave it to Ian, who promptly dropped the bowl on the floor and howled.

Silence on the phone.  Then, “Am I calling you at your office?  Is that a child crying?”

“Yes.”  I changed the subject.  “When is the article due?”

Eric handed Ian a spoon and the child began eating off of the floor.  Unfortunately, mine has never been a floor you could eat off of.

“In a week.  We had another article for that spot, but the writer is sick.  So we need something else quickly.  Do you think you can do it?”

“Sure.”  I dropped my half-napkin down to Ian so he could wipe his face.  “No problem.”

During the next few days, I could barely contain my excitement.  After receiving stacks of rejection letters, I was finally going to have my byline appear in a national magazine.  I threw my heart and soul into the project, working late at night after the kids went to bed and early in the morning, before they got up.

That week we entered cruise-control mode for meal preparation.  Each morning, the older boys found money for school lunch, a jug of milk and cold cereal on the breakfast table.  For five days straight, supper consisted of greasy brown objects cooked in our microwave (fish sticks, tiny tacos, and reconstituted potato lumps.)

With Ian in tow, I headed for the local library to find and then skim books on my topic.  That trip was punctuated with water cooler visits and frantic dashes to the restroom.  (Ian had just been potty-trained, more or less.)  Fortunately, I had take speed-reading in high school, so I managed to get through many publications in a short time, finding useful material.

The first draft of the article contained 3,000 words.  I painstakingly pared it down to the required 1,500, agonizing over each word I cut.  The final piece included carefully researched information, comments from both a clinical social worker and a psychiatrist, and a quote from a parent with a chronically ill child.  My sidebar listed several tips for handling the situation.

After receiving the article, the editor called to compliment me on the content and quality of the piece.  “It’s ready to go,” she said.  “No revisions necessary.”

For weeks, I was riding high—Atlantic Monthly, The New Yorker, watch out!

Well, two months later as I was arguing with my boys about a candy purchase at the checkout counter of the grocery store, I noticed a copy of the magazine on the rack.  My article title, Helping a Friend Through a Medical Crisis was listed right there on the cover.  I pulled the magazine off of the stand and yelled, “Holy cow! I’m real!”

We forgot the candy dispute and ripped through the issue trying to find my article.  There it was, at the end of the magazine, with my byline plainly in view.

The editor, however, had cut the text to a scant 300 words.  She had left my name in tact, but not much else.  The piece contained a quote from one of my sources and a photo of two women gazing at each other.  Maybe one was looking helpful.   I’m not sure.

Yes, I felt disappointed. Fortunately, my paycheck arrived in the mailbox the same day.  I was so thrilled to be published, I hadn’t asked about reimbursement.  As it turned out, they paid me five times what I’d ever gotten writing for local publications.  Although I mourned that the meat had been ripped from the bones of the article, the fat paycheck helped assuage my grief.

So, what did I do with my windfall?  I bought video rental gift certificates for all three boys.  Those movies would come in handy if I ever landed another writing assignment.  I spent a chunk on dinner with my husband at a fancy restaurant.  Then, I bought a very long cord for the telephone in the kitchen.