A few people I know are convinced that I am a successful author. It must be that I’m on Facebook a lot and I know how to Twitter (sort of) because by any worldly measure, I’m not.
A successful author, that is.
I’ve never broken even—money wise. I’ve never been on any bestseller lists. I’ve never been on Oprah’s book club. It’s hard to get my English professors to read anything I write over four pages long.
Then again . . . maybe a few people I know are right.
About the success, I mean.
I’ve written a children’s chapter book about fairies, published three, almost four E-Books on Smashwords, written and illustrated an inspirational book about hope and love, and published a chapter book for middle school kids that was a finalist for a cool prize. And as I type this, I have three new manuscripts in the editing pot, bubbling.
But let’s face it, everyone is writing a book these days, including my bug man.
So success? How do you know?
Recently Phoenix (age 6) came to see me, a little girl some might be tempted to label “different.” Her mother, Paulette, has been trying to educate the rest of us about Phoenix’s autism. Her mother is brave and beautiful, so is Phoenix.
Phoenix came to my home, bringing her book so that I could sign it: a dog-eared, well-loved copy of The Long-Promised Song, words and pictures by Linda L. Zern—me. It’s a little story about tiny creatures and an impossible friendship. The drawings are charcoal and very simple.
At first she didn’t look at me or say anything. She played with my grandchildren. She sat in the talking tree. She visited the rabbits. She listened while the adults talked.
I signed my name in her book. Mostly, she ignored me.
Before they left, Paulette suggested that we take a picture of Phoenix with her favorite author, Linda L. Zern—me. I sat in front of the fireplace on the cedar chest I’ve had since I was a little girl. Without prompting or prodding, Phoenix jumped up next to me, threw her arm around my shoulders, squeezed me tight, squashed her cheek up against mine, and smiled. I could feel her smiling against my face.
I heard her mother whisper something like, “I can’t believe she’s sitting there like that.”
I held my breath because I knew what she meant. I felt what she meant.
It was as if a baby fawn had wandered into my living room, jumped up on my cedar chest, and allowed me to pet it. I could feel the joy in that moment, the joy in that little girl, and the delight of sharing an idea that began as fragile as a cobweb that grew and then changed and became, finally, someone else’s beloved story.
A successful author? Are you kidding? Have you seen the picture?
Linda (Count Me Blessed) Zern
Having children is considered a punishment by many, a mistake of biology by some or a burden of massive sacrificial torment to still others. Many of these folks developed these viewpoints in their own misspent youth—while stoned—also hungry and . . . sexually chipper or romantically frisky . . . or . . . oh forget it . . . The word is horny. They were high and horny.
Our village considers children a bold blessing with eternal bodacious payoffs.
It’s true there is a price to pay, and we pay it. Happily.
We like to entertain, which means we like to talk endlessly. Food is often present. It’s also true that our conversations have their our own special rhythm because of the presence of a large number of juvenile humans in our midst.
Conversations often follow a certain . . . pattern:
A serious minded soul tried to start a serious minded discussion as we habitually congregated in lawn chairs under the maple tree.
“So, what about this special committee to set to rights the under secretary of the over reach party of the governmental suck ups . . .”
A lawn chair crashed to the ground. Shrieking plus screaming stopped the conversation in its tracks as a random mother jumped to her feet, “Good God! Where did those boys find machetes? Put those down. Immediately.”
The speaker struggled to recover, “Did she say, ‘Machetes?’ Are those machetes? I can’t remember what I was saying.”
After the random mother disarmed the rebels, yet another brave conversationalist made the attempt. “So, I was reading an article about the overrated undertaking of the top notched experts in the field of bio-repulsion and electromagnetic shock futures . . .”
“Oh no! Stop him. Stop him. He’s going to kill the baby,” I screamed.
Several rational, highly educated grownups jumped to their feet while knocking each other out of the way as they shouted, “No. No. Don’t hit the gas. Stay right there. We’re coming. Don’t hit the gas.”
They rushed off in a pack to prevent one soggy bottomed toddler from being mutilated by the spinning wheels of a Fisher Price lime green dune buggy, driven by another toddler sucking a binky.
And then as recently as just the other day sometime, a dear friend waxed on about the importance of becoming keen on the contemplation of the careening nexus of the world on the recent educational morass found only . . . when a child’s hysterical wail rang out.
“She’s trying to drink poison!”
Parents scrambled, looking for sources of drinkable poisons and a kid determined to test them out.
I watched the mad rush and smiled at our guest who had yet to close his mouth.
“Around here it’s all kinds of exciting,” I said, shrugging.
“It’s impossible to finish a sentence around you people before someone goes apoplectic.”
“Which makes everything all kinds of exciting. Don’t you agree?”
The sounds of bloody murder and wild hooliganism drowned out his response as a binky sucking toddler roared by in a lime green dune buggy chased by a semi-nude kid swinging a curtain rod.
And that is how our bold + audacious = bodacious village spends its time in the Florida sun under the maple tree. Frankly, I find the rest of the world faintly boring. There’s hardly ever any machete wielding five year olds and the grownups NEVER STOP TALKING.
Linda (Drop the Machete) Zern
