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The Sky Is Falling
Bad news, like a pandemic, spreads quickly and infiltrates the hearts and minds of peoples of all ages, socio-economic backgrounds, and ethnic groups. We’ve had plenty of bad news lately. According to various media literary sites, the book industry is in the proverbial toilet and authors will soon be queuing up in bread lines. That is, if we aren’t obliterated by a terrorist attack on the way to the bread line. Geez, if all we read and hear about is true, why would I even contemplate writing a book? It’s a waste of my time, impossible to sell one after all. One publishing company recently announced that they weren’t going to acquire any new work for an undetermined length of time. So why sit at my computer and spin out a story that no one is going to buy or read?
Why am I sitting here laughing over Tee Wee and Icey bantering in Icey’s Honda on their way to visit the “hoodoo lady?” Why am I sitting here crying over Crow and Browder’s reunion? Why am I sitting in my office writing a memoir that breaks my heart?
I write because I have to, because it’s what I was born to do, because for me it’s the best expression of my humanness. I write because my characters demand it of me. I write because the sheer act of touching the keys of my computers gives me a rush nearly as good as sex. I write because of the joy of sharing stories, of hearing the stories my friends tell me, of reading the books my author friends write. I write because of my family’s pride in my becoming an author when they had thought I wouldn’t amount to much.
My grandson, Chess, is reason enough to continue writing. When I published my first book, Walking Through Shadows, he was six years old. That summer our town held an annual celebration dubbed “Hot August Nights.” Besides being hot, our townspeople wander in and out of the shops that display the artwork of professionals and novices. My grandson was one of the participants. He produced a fine drawing of a pelican which hung on the walls of the Paris Parker Hair Salon beside the crayon drawings of his classmates. When Butch and I stopped by to take him into town, he came out of his room dressed in Bermuda shorts, sneakers, and a clip-on tie. “Why the tie?” I asked. His response: “It’s My art show.” Okay, we smile, we pile into the Subaru. At the salon we admired the pelican. “Wonderful lines.” “You’ve captured the essence of pelicans.” “Nice clean background.” We turned to leave for the other shops where the artwork was accompanied by free wine, but Chess refused to come with us. “I can’t leave,” he cried. “But why not?” I asked. “There may be questions,” he said.
Another grandson story occurred a few years later. Butch and I attended grandparents’ day at Chess’s elementary school. In the cafeteria we sat at long tables with other proud grandparents chatting about the school events and miscellany. In a lull in the conversation Chess turned to me and said, “So, Nanny, when’s your next book coming out?” Now I defy any grandmother or parent to tell me I shouldn’t keep writing because the economic climate is such that it’s a waste of time and paper.
I don’t know what reasons other authors may have for penning their stories, but I hope that they feel as I do. I hope they believe in themselves, in the value of our profession. I hope they are optimists, Pollyannas, who smile at the naysayers, who avow to keep on keeping as the Chicken Littles of the world give up. I’m not giving up. I may have to wait a while for my new books to appear on the shelves of libraries and bookstores. I may have to eat a pot of beans instead of steak. I may have to forego the Italian shoes I covet. I may give up a lot of luxuries in life. But I’ll still be rich because love can’t be measured on the DOW index.
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