BY MARGARET LANGSTAFF

Let me be upfront about one thing—this column is a pitch for a book. I confess I didn't used to be so crassly commercial and so brazen a name-dropper, but life does stuff to us, you know? Only a few of us are the persons we hoped to be.

Here is my story, warts and all. Hear me out and hold your criticism until I'm finished.

My English teacher is somehow responsible for the direction I took (thank you, Mrs. Bixby). From her, I drew my inspiration to be a writer and a force in the publishing world. She made me stay with The Sound and the Fury until I figured out the first chapter was indeed told by an idiot, and it wasn't Faulkner who was retarded. I matriculated from high school with her blessings and a warm Godspeed. After four sweaty sleepless years burning the candle at both ends, I graduated Phi Beta Kappa and with Honors in English from a respected university. From thence, after completing my master's, I cooled my heels for a while teaching high school English. Worn out and discouraged by April, I left high school teaching forever. I couldn't take it. Up and quit.

Then, after a brief rest, bravura restored, I went to New York as if on a crusade and cravenly begged for a job in publishing, which Doubleday—flush from having just published Peter Benchley's magnum opus Jaws—reluctantly gave me in the sub-rights department for an honorarium of $125 a week. Time passed. I changed publishers a few times. I moved up slowly. Too slowly, I was sure, given my considerable talents. I seethed. Then, oddly, the entrepreneurial bug bit me, and I opened a bookstore—stopped sleeping, worked all the time, did pretty well and sold out just before the chain stores moved in. From there, I went to a big book distributor, learned big business, did well, moved up fast.

Became a journalist and writer. Wrote some books. Did a lot of consulting to the book industry. Saw my name in the New York Times, the L.A. Times, BookPage. Packaged books, edited books, ghost wrote books. Reviewed books in many national magazines. Became a member of the Book Critic's Circle. Met many celebrities and literary luminaries. Even have their home phone numbers.

Then one night in New York recently over some expensive cabernet, as I was presenting one of my book ideas to a publisher, he interrupted me with an imitation of Bill Clinton, done in the style of Saturday Night Live regular Darrell Hammond. I smirked condescendingly. "Did you know I was Darrell Hammond's English teacher in high school?"

The publisher, an old friend (publishing is such an old friend business), choked ever so slightly on his sip of wine. My God! He gasped elegantly. You were Darrell Hammond's high school English teacher? He whined through his nose as if in pain. My God! I had no idea! What was it like? Why did you never tell me this before?!!

Um, maybe because I didn't think it was important?

My publisher friend quaffed the roseate dregs in his glass and plunked his dainty stemware on the table linen in a fit of pique. I mean, dear, I thought we were close. His eyes cringed like lost puppies and his smile turned down.

I decided my resumé needed a quick edit.

So Darrell, if you're out there reading this, be advised: I've been offered big money to talk. I've saved your crude essays and attendance records. I remember the lustful adolescent adoration that bloomed from you like a frightening radioactive glow. I vividly recall the time you, Bobby Wilkins, Keith I-Can't-Remember-His-Last-Name and the rest of you humorous thugs overturned the desks while I was re-winding the projector. Oh, and I remember a lot more too, buddy. Like that really irritating imitation you'd do of me at the blackboard with my hand on my hip and my toe pointed out that always brought the house down.

But I'm going to be smart this time. I'm holding out for the best offer. Other publishers should have a chance, to be fair about it. And the tabloids, too. (To hell with literature. Sorry, Mrs. Bixby). Tell the truth, Darrell! You got your inspiration, timing, many of your droll expressions, your famous use of the pregnant pause and some of your best lines from your English teacher. And most of all, Darrell, you have to admit you learned at my feet how to get and keep an audience's attention! As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Langstaff, who writes about and for the publishing industry, taught English at Melbourne High School in Melbourne, Florida, from August 1972 to April 1973. Darrell Hammond was one of her students.