I thumb through pages of The Oxford American, John Grisham's publication, and fanaticize I am listed on the Contributor's page. "I tried only once, and it wasn't my best story," I console myself, but I know that at the time I sent it, it was my best story. My filing cabinet bulges with the polite "no-thank-yous" from myriads of magazine editors and literary agencies, but I ignore the failures and continue with the hope that one day I'll be living off royalty checks, sipping mint juleps on the spacious lawn of my recently purchased southern mansion while signing the movie rights contract for my latest novel. I have a dream.

That's what writers do. They dream. They imagine what would happen if...What the world would be like if...That's what makes a good writer: dreaming. I dream. So why am I not signing autographs on my latest novel in the spacious foyer of a New York book boutique? The answer is simple. Dreaming is only the beginning.

Speaking of my filing cabinet again, I pull out several of my first stories. I read through them, picking out gross grammatical errors, misspells that my spell checker thought was another word, choppy-choking sentences. "I can't believe I wrote this stuff!" I groan. Then I realize something embarrassing. I sent this awful stuff to some of the most prestigious magazine publishers in America! I try to console myself by saying that I have seen worse, but it does little to abate the scarlet-faced embarrassment I'm feeling. I look through my rejections hoping to find some glimmer of hope for my southern mansion-movie rights signing dream. As I move through the stories, I realize that writing is more than just a good idea—a good story. It's not what you write; it's how you write it, and good writing is really hard work. You've got to work at your craft to get better.

I go to my word processor and begin a list. So far, I've got a writer is a dreamer and a writer must work hard in order to succeed. That done, I continue my journey through my filing cabinet. My grammar is improving. My punctuation is getting better. My sentences aren't so broken and misunderstood. I realize that my writing is getting better. I cautiously lean back in my broken-backed chair and resume my vision of the southern mansion. "I still have a chance," I assure myself.

While sipping imaginary mint juleps in the afternoon breeze, (The fan next to me aids my vision.) I think about my novel. It's been finished for over a year now. My writing has turned to the more dismal job of query letters (those letters I send to the prospective literary agencies hoping to convince them to sell my novel) and stuffing the rejections I get back into my already overstuffed rejection files.

The novel took years to complete. Even though I wrote the first draft in less than six months, I have rewritten the thing fourteen times! Now, when I scan the pages I haven't seen is several weeks, I am pleased with my work. It sounds good. It flows. It is interesting. If I can just convey that to the prospective agent.

So I'm adding another line to my list of things that make a good writer. Rewrite, rewrite, rewrite, and rewrite some more. What have I got so far? A writer is a dreamer who asks what if. A writer works hard to master his craft. A writer is never satisfied with his first draft, so he rewrites.

I get up from my desk and stretch. Concentrating is hard for me, so I need a recess. I walk into the living room and sit down. A writer's magazine lies on my lamp table and the cover catches my eye. "What makes a good fiction writer," the cover says. I pick the magazine up and thumb through the dog-eared pages. I've read the article before, but I scan through it again, hoping I can glean something new from its message. Across the room, rows of plastic magazine holders conceal other equally-worn writer's magazines. I get up and pull a couple of holders off the shelves and dump the contents into my lap, searching for that magic formula that will make my writing come alive. In my search, I realize that I need to add another line to my list, so I get up and return to my computer.

I add study to my growing list. I remember when I began to purchase those magazines. My original intention was to get the list of magazine publishers so I could find markets for my stories, but when I began to read the articles, I discovered what I knew about writing was minute, infinitesimal, microscopic!

I read and studied, trying to find the formulas for a good novel. I learned about point of view, plot development, characterization, and rewriting. I realized two semesters of English Comp were not adequate to make me a best-selling author. I began to devour anything I could find on writing. My quest for knowledge led me to haunt the magazine stand daily, waiting on the next issues of the writer's magazines I found most helpful.

Let's see. What have I got so far? A writer is a dreamer. A writer must work hard. A writer must rewrite. A writer must study.

I get up and take another recess. This time I walk out to my water garden, still under construction. The little hill to the right of the pool had a visitor, I observe. An armadillo, in his quest for a midnight snack, has pockmarked the ground cover I planted last spring. He scattered the pumice rock border and rooted up the black plastic I laid down to keep the grass at bay. I make a mental note: attempt to reform armadillo's habits and repair damage. Looking to my left, I notice the ivy I planted is missing. This is the work of Don's puppy, Budweiser, no doubt. Bud sometimes dislikes where I put my plants, and his disfavor is evident. I locate the ivy near the armadillo's diggings. Bud is trying to blame his mischief on the armadillo, I surmise. I'll have a talk with him about the wickedness of deceit later. I replant my ivy for the third or fourth time (I've lost count) and discover another line for my list of things that make a good writer: persistence.

When that first rejection notice arrives in the mail, the initial response is to blame the magazine editors and vow to never purchase another issue. After the initial anger subsides, I then fall into the abyss of rejection syndrome. This lasts for several hours before my resolve rekindles.

I frame the few letters of encouragement I receive. Most of the letters are form letters that tell me my work is not what they are looking for, a polite way of saying "Come back when you can write." Those go into my previously mentioned filing cabinet. I don't throw them away. I originally intended to write them all back once I had my first bestseller, reproving them for the obvious lack of insight when they read my work. After reviewing my earlier stories, I think I'll just keep the rejection slips to remind me that good writers are made, not born.

I won't take another recess. I have one more line to add: criticism. After getting so many rejection letters, I realized that it wasn't that the publishing field was filled with morons—I was doing something wrong. What I needed to do was find out what and fix it. I began farming my manuscripts out to friends. They always had the same responses: "Good story, I like it, I like the ending," etc. I knew I was going to get neither a truthful response nor an informed one from friends, so I began to seek people who were writers themselves. As criticism poured in, I began to rewrite using the suggestions they made. It worked! What I thought I was saying was not what others were perceiving. I cherished each criticism, every critical remark. These people were letting me see my work from a different perspective.

Okay, I lied. I am going to take another recess. I walk into the kitchen and fix my lunch. It's leftovers from last night. The boys all went to spend the night with friends before it was done (Their loss!). It's a rice dish, and everybody knows a rice dish is always better the second day. I got the recipe from my mother. A good recipe, when followed, often produces the desired results, which leads to my next point. A motivational speaker once said, "No one plans to fail, they just fail to plan." When I launched my writing career, I planned to succeed, but I neglected to plan how I was going to succeed. I had no strategy. I was just going to write, sell my stories, and get royalty checks. The only check I got was a reality check when the rejection slips started flooding my mail. I am as yet unpublished, but I am persistent. I know more than I knew several years ago, but I still study. I hate for someone to pick apart my writing, but I still beg for criticism. I will probably rewrite this piece a dozen times before I am happy with it; I still rewrite. I dislike hard work as much as the next person, but I will continue to work hard at my craft. I haven't realized my dreams, but that doesn't deter me in the least.

Hundreds of talented could-be writers attend school at PRCC. They have many wonderful stories to tell. They have unique ways of looking at things from many different perspectives. Great southern writers have added to the personality of American literature. Writers like Faulkner, Williams, Welty, Grisham, Morris, Harris, to mention very few, hail from Mississippi. Down-home humor and horror deck the walls of bookstores everywhere. A Mississippi author is as welcome in Los Angeles as he is in Jackson. It is because they realize something is unique about Mississippi's soil: it grows writers. Perhaps it is because there are few distractions in the hard-boiled lives we lead; maybe it's the diet, but whatever it is, Mississippi produces not only writers, it produces great writers.

Sitting in Creative Writing class, hearing the wonderful stories that blossoming young writers have spun, I felt they must have the chance to grow. English instructors Julia Ferguson and Erlene Smith felt so, too. They've felt it a lot longer than I have, but they needed a student vehicle to carry it out. The Magic River is that vehicle. I'm sure every writer that appears in this magazine will not write a bestseller, but if even one finds his or her way into the hallowed halls of famous writers, it will have been worth the effort.

As for me, I still have my dream. I'm still dreaming of sitting out on the spacious lawn of my newly purchased southern mansion, sipping mint juleps, while signing the movie rights for my latest novel and dreaming up the plot of my next best seller, and I don't intend to give up.

The Editor's Choice

In each issue of The Magic River, I hope to spotlight several choice pieces of writing, giving credit to the hard work, persistence, and dedication of the authors. Hopefully, this will become a tradition and the contributing writers will deem it both honor and privilege to be recognized here.

In this premiere issue, there are several works I would call your attention to. In the Short Story category, Doris Zuniga's The Value of a Smile is a lighthearted look at her travels to Nicaragua with the Peace Corps and the way she conquered the language barrier with a smile. Travis Shuler takes an unusual approach to the problems of growing up in Michael. Both stories are outstanding examples of quality writing.

In the poetry category, two poems stand out. John L. Strauser's The Poet speaks the heart of every writer, and Jennifer Roberts takes a unique look at one woman's wine and song in Whiskey Sours.

All of the authors represented in this journal are winners, or else their work would not have made it this far. You may have a completely different list of your own personal choices. These are mine.

EDITOR
Ronn Hague

ASSISTANT EDITOR
Anna-Clair Morgan

SHORT STORIES EDITOR
Becky Coco

POETRY EDITOR
Thomas Treadaway

ESSAY EDITOR
Karen Rankin

ART EDITOR
Heath LaPrarie

FACULTY ADVISORS
Julia Ferguson
Erline Smith