(The following was written about 8 years ago for a non-marine writing publication..)

         Copyright 2001 by Gary 'Cap'n Fatty' Goodlander
  
         No portion of this manuscript can be reproduced
           in any way without the author's permission.

                      Writing to Stay Afloat

                    by Cap'n Fatty Goodlander

     I didn't hardly go to school----just four or five years
total. I spent most of my childhood at sea aboard a 1924 Alden-
designed 52 foot schooner named Elizabeth. My father was a pareo-
wearing beatnik who shunned the shore. "Don't ever get involved
with the dirt dwellers, son," he'd advise me. "Remember: men and
ships rot in port!"

     I listened. At fifteen years of age I met a soft-spoken
Italian girl, lured her aboard the 1932 Atkin's 22 foot sloop-
rigged double-ender I'd just purchased, and sailed away into the
sunset.

     Few people in the world were less suited to be a writer. I
didn't know how to spell, the parts of a sentence or what an
essay was. Even talking to people made me uptight: I had a severe
speech impediment. I didn't even know how to write cursive----and
my alphabet printing was sloppy as well.

     But dreams are funny things. My heart was filled-to-bursting
with laughter and tears----and I knew people would love me if
they could just see inside. And I was an avid reader----thrilling
to the words of Twain, Steinbeck and Hemingway.

     But if you can't even spell worth a fock----it's hopeless,
isn't it?

     At the age of 27 I briefly returned to the United States,
and sailed up the east coast----dropping in on old friends along
the way. Again and again, the same scene was repeated. My friends
would bring out an old shoe box (or large envelope or pillow
case) filled with my salt-stained letters. They'd invite friends
over with whom they'd shared those same letters----and those
friends (whom I had never met) loved me too.

     It was a revelation. Maybe my quest wasn't hopeless.

     The following year----just over 25 years ago----I decided to
become a full-time professional writer. I had two big advantages:
my living expenses were low and my wife Carolyn (yeah, same one)
believed in me.

     We were anchored off St. Augustine, Florida, at the time----
in the lee of the Bridge of Lions. I didn't own a typewriter, so
I purchased a used portable Olivetti from Goodwill.

     "Mrs. Darby will see you now," said the blue-haired woman at
the circulation desk of the local library on Aviles Street.

     Mrs. Darby was a grey-haired, bifocaled, no-nonsense type of
librarian----so I didn't pull any punches.

     She cocked her head in amazement as she listened to my
spiel, and occasionally jabbed a fat pencil in-and-out of her
hair in exasperation.

     "Let me get this straight," she said. "You've never written
anything----but you want to write. You need a quiet office five
days a week where you can work without interruption... do you
have any money?"

     "Well, no," I admitted. "But I got a strong back----I could
pull the weeds or wash your car or lug some books..."

     "...do you really expect me to say yes?"

     "Well," I said. "I thought that maybe if you were into
promoting book-reading that, you know, you'd be into promoting
book-writing too."

     We stared at each other a long time. "Follow me," she said,
and led me up a narrow stairway to the attic. There were three
odd-shaped rooms up there----two of them filled with spilling
piles of spine-damaged library books. Our shoes left tracks in
the dust. The floorboards creaked. It was stifling hot. Airless.
Stuffy. Confining. 

     "Did you ever read The Yearling," she asked as she led me
into the final room----which was strangely empty, save for a
ancient desk and rickety chair facing the lead-glassed garret
window. 

     "Yes, madame," I said. "Margaret Kenning-Rawlings. Pulitzer-
prize winner."

     "Margaret used to write up here often----when she wasn't at
Cross Creek," Mrs. Darby said quietly.

     I felt the hair on the back up my neck stand up. My hands
were shaking and my throat was dry. I couldn't believe my good
fortune. It was omen----I was on the right path.

     "I'm taking a big risk here, young man," she said as she
turned and left. "Please don't disappoint me."

     The following day I set up my typewriter and began to stare
at it. Day after day I stared at it----hoping it would spring to
life. My goal was to get something anything published somewhere
within the next 12 months. But my typewriter was mute. And I felt
like crying.

     I couldn't do it. I couldn't write anything, and if I did...
no one would publish it. I was going to fail----for the first
time in my adult life, I was going to fail.

     Then it dawned on me that unobtainable goals were counter-
productive. So I immediately changed my goals to 'typing' each
day for six hours while collecting one hundred honest rejection
slips over the course of the next 12 months. 

     Yippee! Each morning I'd dash up the stairs and start
pounding out gibberish on the keyboard----about what I'd just
eaten for breakfast, the weather outside or the color of my
socks. It didn't matter. I wasn't 'writing,' I was typing. The
pages piled up. I measured my success with a ruler.

     It wasn't long before I could easily type 20 pages of
gibberish a day. The late afternoons and evening were spent
reading about the writing life as well.

     One book advised, "Hang out with other writers," so I walked
into the editorial offices of the St. Augustine Beacon and asked
the first person I met if they were a writer. "I'm Katherine
Hawk," the woman said. "And I write the 'About Town' column."

     "Good," I said. "I'm supposed to hang out with you."

     "Excuse me..?" she said. (Years later her husband Bob
laughed, "I thought you were trying to screw her----I had no idea
you were serious about all that writing crap!")

     Everyday I wrote... oophs, TYPED gibberish for six hours.

     "The job of a writer is to write," Katherine Hawk had told
me at our first meeting----and I took her advice to heart.

     Another book on writing advised to 'write what you know.' I
decided to become a 'marine journalist' on the way to being a
world famous novelist.

     I studied other struggling writers, and noticed how many of
them seemed to be lecturing, pontificating, and preaching down to
their readers. I began to think of this as the 'broom-stick-up-
the-butt' school of journalism----and promised myself I'd never
fall into it. Instead, I concentrated on entertaining and amazing
my readers----and emotionally touching them. (Tears and/or
laughter are still the highest compliments I can earn).

     One day I happened to stroll by a shoe store which had an
advertisement for 'cross-training' sport shoes. Every single
thing that happened to me every single second of every day during
this stage of learning my craft----I thought of in terms of
writing. Cross-training? I took out books on acting----and
started to practice how each of my characters would walk, talk
and hold their bodies. A text book on costumes helped me to
literally dress the part as I wrote the part. A book on the
'artist's eye' had me concentrating on the intricate-yet-unseen
details of everyday life all around me (telephone poles, man-hole
covers, parking meters, etc). A book on the five senses really
wowed me: I'd walk around town asking myself what the color blue
would taste like; how an orange would sound if it was a symphony.

     I started looking deeply at the textured of everything: it's
grain, heft, nicks, nap and weave.

     I saw a picture of the Mona Lisa and thought about her
smile. I immediately dashed to my typewriter and pounded out
story: she'd thought she was pregnant by the Vicar's son----but
had just now felt the first trickle... and realized (with
immense-yet-oh-so-secret relief) she'd only been late.

     My wife asked me if I was going insane. I looked at her,
really looked at her. I could see the pores on her nose, musical
notes were leaking out her armpits, her breasts seemed to be
filled with helium.

     "I don't know," I said.

     Big news! Another ink-slinging Margaret was coming to town.
This time it was British novelist Margaret Walters of Harrogate,
Yorkshire, author of delicately-written, rose-scented thriller
Time Most Precious.

     I went down to the hotel where she was staying----but it was
bad timing. She was upset. Somebody had vandalized her car----and
she'd never had anything like that happen in England. "Why? Why?"
she kept asking. "What kind of person would do such a thing?"

     The following morning, right smack dab in the middle of my
gibberish, popped a story of EXACTLY why I'd vandalized that rich
bitch's car----and I slipped into her message box at the hotel
before my courage deserted me.

     We were both uptight at our initial meeting. "Look," I
blurt. "I'm not a vandal. I'm a writer... well, actually, I'm a
typer who WANTS to be a writer..."

     "...what are you talking about?"

     I didn't know what to say---so I just babbled. "I can feel
everything which has ever been felt. All the anger in the entire
world----all the love and hatred and jealousy and envy... all the
goodness and evil in the universe is locked within my breast. I
know what it is to die... or to be reborn----how spilt ice-cream
feels on the hot pavement of a sunny summer's day..."

     Margaret Walters looked at me horror----she hadn't been
expecting to be tricked into visiting with a dangerous lunatic.
But she asked the one question I wanted to hear, "Do you have any
more of your writing with you?"

     Margaret was in town to give a series of lectures for the
Florida Freelance Writer's Association (FFWA). She needed a
chauffeur, baggage handler and go-fer----or, as she so politely
put it, 'a young editorial assistant.'

     I was soon traveling around the state with her----meeting
Dana Cassell, the magazine marketing expert; Janet Groene, the
Caribbean travel writer; and Elaine Rocco Chase, the romance
novelist.

     "Ah, Fatty!" said novelist Jack Hunter, best-selling author
of the Blue Max----which had recently been turned into a highly
successful movie. "Margaret was telling me what a fine young
writer you are!"

     It was a couple of weeks later----I think at the Annual FFWA
conference in Orlando-----when Margaret read a few of my 'best
gibberish' paragraphs and called me up to the stage amid warm
applause. (I stupidly said something like, "Adjectives suck,
verbs are cool," but it was my very first 'public' speech on the
art of writing----and I'll never forget how I savored it).

     It was time to get down to brass tacks. Each day I'd arrive
at my garret, and shout aloud my three main rules of good
writing: "Show don't tell, illuminate don't describe, and advance
the action!"

     Then I'd start pounding the keys.

     If I'd begin to grind to a halt, I'd shout aloud to the
empty room, "Type, you idiot, type!"

     I divided my day into two parts: six hours of 'creative'
(writing and editing) and two hours of 'business' (manuscript
mechanics and mailing, traffic lists, professional
correspondence, etc.)

     Every Monday at noon, I'd mail off five query letters to
major magazines. Each Friday afternoon I'd mail off at least one
finished manuscript----and often two.

     Every time I'd get a rejection letter, I'd post it on the
wall of my office in plain view----one step closer to my goal of
a hundred.

     'These aren't rejections,' I'd tell myself. 'These are
visible reminders that I'm continuously searching for the markets
which will eventually buy my work on a regular basis!'

     Before I'd mail off each story, I'd research the five best
markets for that story and 'pre-write' the cover letters at the
very outset. I did this so the 'sting' of rejection was somewhat
less, and so that I could quickly resubmit the article to the
next market without hesitation or self-doubt.

     At the same time, I met with other writers, editors and
publisher as often as possible: not merely to 'network' with them
and promote my own work----but to listen and learn from them as
well. 

     The seventeenth story I sent off sold----to a local paper
for ten bucks. I was thrilled beyond... well, words! Fifty-some
stories later I sold another marine-related story----this time to
a 'glossy' regional magazine. I'd probably sold around fifty or
sixty stories and articles----when a small marine 'fish-wrapper'
newspaper called Caribbean Boating offered me a regular column.

     I couldn't believe it. Within a year of first being
published, I was a by-lined columnist!

     I started sending 'clips' with my queries----and positive
responses shot up accordingly. Some marine-related publications
started contacting ME for articles, and I was thus in a position
to command a far higher price. I quickly realized that 'marine-
related writing' was a huge growing field which encompassed
environmental, travel, industry, how-to, sports and personal
experience writing----as well as general interest stories about
boats and boaters.

     But, thus far, I'd not sold to any national 'prestige'
magazine. So I set my sights on SAIL magazine in Boston----and
one of its most revered editors, Marty Luray, in particular.

     Marty was a sailor's sailor----and a highly skilled
wordsmith as well. (Former editor of Rudder, etc). In fact, Marty
was highly regarded as the most 'literary' of the marine editors
currently at work... a man who really cared about words and how
they lay on the page.

     About two years into my writing career, I wrote a story I
thought was worthy of sending directly to my hero Marty Luray. I
polished and polished and polished it----until it shone like a
1200 word jewel. Marty purchased it immediately. I send him
another story the following month, and got another positive
result in the return mail. Then a horrible thing happened. Marty
requested I call him and when I did----he requested I write him
an essay on...

     Well, of course, I couldn't. I couldn't write an essay. I
didn't even know what an essay was----something scholarly, I
assumed. I didn't know anything about grammar or composition or
dangling particles... hell, I'd only been to school for a couple
of boring years----I was just a crude story teller, for gosh
stakes, and now I was being 'caught' pretending to be something
which I was not."

     "...and, as you know, I loved the last two essays I
purchased from you," said Marty Luray----and I almost burst into
tears of relief.

     About six months later SAIL published a short piece of mine
----an essay, actually----entitled 'The Last Cruise.' According
to Marty it received more positive mail than any story he'd
purchased for the magazine.

     "You're on your way," he told me.

     I'll never forget reading the 'Letters to the Editor' which
followed, and staring at the headline GOOD WORDS FOR GOODLANDER.

     I'd finally learned my craft well-enough so that I could
show the world my heart----and they'd loved it.

     I soon went to Europe to cover professional multihull racing
for SAIL, and wrote for Boat International and Yachting World
while there. Yacht Racing and Cruising (now Sailing World)
started buying stories from me, as did Yacht Vacations, Latitude
38, Sailing, and (eventually, and best of all) Cruising World.

     My stories were translated into Dutch, Danish, French,
Spanish and German.

     Fodor's Travel Guides asked me to update some of the their
sailing, chartering and diving chapters----the beginning of a ten
year relationship.

     Regional marine publications such at Caribbean Boating, the
VI Marine Scene, and All at Sea were delighted to put my name on
their masthead... and pay me for the privilege.

     The BBC invited me to London to appear on TV, and the Tokio
Broadcasting System send a film crew down to the Virgin Islands
for a week to do a documentary on the life of a writing sea
gypsy. WVWI Radio One gave me a weekly radio show----which is now
on its 12th year.

     I wrote three books, edited a fourth, and founded American
Paradise Publishing. (My 'Chasing the Horizon' {ISBN 0-9631060-1-
5} still sells a little better every year.)

     I never lost sight of why all these good things were
happening, and continued to write six hours a day, five days a
week without let up. "The job of a writer is to write," is the
best advice I've ever received.

      Carolyn and I are currently in Brisbane, Australia, aboard
our current yacht Wild Card (a sloop-rigged Hughes 38, designed
by S&S). For the last twenty years, enough money has dribbled out
of my pen to leisurely cruise the Atlantic Ocean, Gulf of Mexico,
and Caribbean Sea. We've just spent a couple of years sailing in
the South Pacific, and will soon be heading for Bali, Indonesia,
India and beyond----merrily writing as we go.

     But I can still remember how scared I was when I first sat
down at that mute typewriter----how it seemed insane to aspire to
become what I now am. I had no skills. None. Zero. Yet I knew I
was born to write----so write I did. (End)