How to get work published? Submit it

Another benefit of the 500-word limit I impose on writers in the memoir classes I lead? Magazines, newspapers and blogs publish short pieces like that.

This week I asked some of my writers for 500 words on “Witnessing Love.” Sharon Silverman was so pleased with the poignant piece she wrote about witnessing the love in her uncle and aunt’s relationship that she submitted it to the Chicago Tribune.

And guess what? Sharon’s essay, When Memory Fades, Love Remains was published in today’s paper in honor of Valentine’s Day.

In class, and in the memoir-writing workshops I lead, I am often asked how to get work published. My response is a simple two-word sentence: Submit it. “If you don’t send it in, it’ll never get published!” I say with a laugh. I turn more serious when advising them to read submission guidelines before submitting. “That’ll tell you whether or not your essay is what that publication is looking for.”

So of course I’m extremely pleased that Sharon Silverman’s piece is in the Chicago Tribune today, but I’m especially proud of her for taking the time this week to submit it there.

Happy Valentine’s Day to our Safe & Sound blog readers, we love you all. As a gift, I’m sharing Sharon Silverman’s published work from today’s Chicago Tribune.

When memory fades, love remains

by Sharon Silverman

My aunt and uncle were strawberries and cream, apples and honey, enhancing each other with sweetness all the days of their lives. They still held hands walking down the street after 50 years of marriage.

Then my aunt started forgetting. “Where did I put my glasses?” “What’s the name of that place we visited yesterday?” Just small memory lapses, not uncommon in later years. Some mild senior moments. Or were they?

My uncle provided the answers she couldn’t retrieve. “We went to the Art Institute yesterday and saw the Monet exhibit. You loved the water lilies. Remember now?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I enjoyed it so much.”

A few hours later she’d ask again, “What’s the name of that place we visited yesterday?” He calmly answered again.

Her mind was failing. His worry was growing. The dreaded diagnosis — Alzheimer’s — invaded their lives.

She retreated into powerful plaque and stuck synapses. He advanced into caretaker mode. Buying groceries, making meals, laundering clothes, dressing her, bathing her, taking charge until he couldn’t. It was too much.

My uncle succumbed and moved my aunt to the now-necessary nursing home. He joined a support group for those caring for loved ones who can no longer care for themselves. He wanted help with the loss and the grief of seeing my Aunt Ruth disappear.

Instead, he became more depressed.

He was lonely at home and moved to an apartment in the independent living section of the nursing home, only four floors away from her. She descended further into incompetence and incontinence. She cried in pain without relief.

He stroked her forehead, held her hand, kissed her cheek and prayed, “Please, let her die.” With steadfast love, he wrapped himself in memories of traveling the world, attending the symphony, walking down Michigan Avenue arm in arm in quiet harmony.

Only dissonance remained. It was unbearable. For her. For him.

She was hospitalized. He never left her side. The attending physician suggested not treating the infection. My uncle asked, “Is that really allowed?”

With an affirmative nod, the doctor answered his prayer.

Alone together, he stroked her head. He held her hands. He laid next to her, embracing her body — the body he had known for over 50 years. The body that must leave him now. The mind that had already disappeared.

She’s finally free and so is he. Only the love remains.