The Anecdotal Life Part. 91
Brain dead here. My cats are emotionally attached to my rising and feeding their "Lardships" by 6:30 A.M. Why ever did I retire? However, it has been an enormously long time since I have written- which isn't quite true since I hired a self-publishing company to help me put out my book. I have been doing that pretty thoroughly since sometime in late September. I chose Ex Libris because Random house is its sister company. Well, that sounded good. All in all it has been a good but harrowing experience. It caused me to stand up and fight a little bit for what I really wanted, did or didn't like and to examine and examine and examine every little dot and dash. Learned something about writing that way and something about what kind of writer I was.
Each agent , some more than others, was concerned with hustling me down whatever cattle-run he or she was responsible for. Probably they were being paid for each author they successfully processed. The good ones would take the time to listen to me squawk and try to help me figure out what was going on. Ah, and that took some time. One learns a lot about the publishing world in a microcosmic, soul shattering, sort of way. I will have more to say about the process in another blog, because actually I am SUPPOSED to be writing about my favorite birthday to fulfill a prompt requirement for our writing group, so this blog will sound a bit schizophrenic.
My first thought was the birthday I turned five. My mother had a party for me. I don't remember anyone who came except Bobby Wagner and for a good reason. Apparently, and I don't recall this; I had been very ill and ruined a bear that I adored. Anyhow that's what mom said. Bobby came in the door with his mom, holding a large black and white panda with a red bow. I didn't see anything else after that. I latched onto that bear like a life raft and my mother had to eventually sneak me off into a corner and lecture my five-year-old self for neglecting my guests. "Oh them." I thought.
The bear is still in my possession in a box of ancient books and memorabilia way up those pull steps that lead to the attic. I slept with the bear until I was in my teens then kept him on the dresser. My room was on the second floor of a hundred-year-old house that gave me the heebie-jeebies. When I was terrified by the noises I slapped that bear over my chest with his head over my face so that I couldn't be strangled effectively or stabbed. That bear and my cat who came up the tree , over the roof and scratched on the window to be let in, were my security guards.... or so I thought. When I first heard the story Bill Cosby told about "The Great Chicken Heart" and by then I was a parent, I realized all kids get scared; it was one of the universal facts of childhood. Nowadays, it's one of the universal facts of our daily lives and no bear , real or stuffed, no cat, big or small will make a hill of beans worth of difference toward our security. I can still see that bear coming in the door and at least, for a few years, I was lulled into the feeling of being safe. Some kids don't get any of that.
Copyright: November 20, 2009.
Each agent , some more than others, was concerned with hustling me down whatever cattle-run he or she was responsible for. Probably they were being paid for each author they successfully processed. The good ones would take the time to listen to me squawk and try to help me figure out what was going on. Ah, and that took some time. One learns a lot about the publishing world in a microcosmic, soul shattering, sort of way. I will have more to say about the process in another blog, because actually I am SUPPOSED to be writing about my favorite birthday to fulfill a prompt requirement for our writing group, so this blog will sound a bit schizophrenic.
My first thought was the birthday I turned five. My mother had a party for me. I don't remember anyone who came except Bobby Wagner and for a good reason. Apparently, and I don't recall this; I had been very ill and ruined a bear that I adored. Anyhow that's what mom said. Bobby came in the door with his mom, holding a large black and white panda with a red bow. I didn't see anything else after that. I latched onto that bear like a life raft and my mother had to eventually sneak me off into a corner and lecture my five-year-old self for neglecting my guests. "Oh them." I thought.
The bear is still in my possession in a box of ancient books and memorabilia way up those pull steps that lead to the attic. I slept with the bear until I was in my teens then kept him on the dresser. My room was on the second floor of a hundred-year-old house that gave me the heebie-jeebies. When I was terrified by the noises I slapped that bear over my chest with his head over my face so that I couldn't be strangled effectively or stabbed. That bear and my cat who came up the tree , over the roof and scratched on the window to be let in, were my security guards.... or so I thought. When I first heard the story Bill Cosby told about "The Great Chicken Heart" and by then I was a parent, I realized all kids get scared; it was one of the universal facts of childhood. Nowadays, it's one of the universal facts of our daily lives and no bear , real or stuffed, no cat, big or small will make a hill of beans worth of difference toward our security. I can still see that bear coming in the door and at least, for a few years, I was lulled into the feeling of being safe. Some kids don't get any of that.
Copyright: November 20, 2009.
posted by The Anecdotal Life at 5:08 AM
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