Once upon a time, there was a new book written by a nobody buried deep within the bowels of Amazon’s search engine. It longed for the day someone would click on its link and read its sample content. Day after day…
Hold it buster! This ain’t no fairy tale. That’s probably one reason people don’t want to read it. Who ever heard of an inanimate object talking? (Prologue). The very idea is ridiculous. It’s stuff like that that makes me look amateurish.
Perhaps it’s those homemade threads you made my cover from. You had lots of advice on how to get this right, but did you listen? Nooooo… You should have sought a fine tailor, one who could make me look professional and distinguished. But not you. Okay, so you don’t have two nickels to rub together most of the time, like Russell (The Search for Marie’s Father). Is that any excuse for covering me the way you did? Haven’t you ever heard of credit cards?
For that matter, why publish me anyway and subject me to such humiliation? You get Laube’s daily emails, the ones with the blog posts. You knew that 4,000 books are published every day. A needle in a haystack — that’s all I am. And a Christmas book at that. Does anyone really celebrate Christmas anymore? Oh, wait, that line is from the movie, The Man Who Invented Christmas. Probably not the right context for this argument. But the notion that you could is about as absurd now as that idea was to them back then.
And then there’s your vulgar English. Well, not vulgar really, just not professionally edited. How dare you publish me that way? I know, I know you’re old, broke, and sick. And that you are supporting a daughter and her four teenage children and a mildly retarded older brother with dementia and on dialysis from your meager SSI income. But that’s no excuse. What about those credit cards, eh?
For that matter, what made you think you could ever write a book anyway? And four of them at that. Okay, so you think you had some kind of ‘burden’ to write the last three. Ho hum. That’s what they all say. All I can say is I feel sorry for the other three when you put them through this torture. And me? Whatever possessed you to write me? I’m not even like your other three poor victims.
I mean, really, how many people mourn the deaths of their children or spouses at Christmas? You’d think that was important or something. How about a few shoot-em-ups or something to get the blood flowing? But nooooo, yours have to be psychological. And where on earth is the guy in the white hat? All you have is a bunch of broken people doing extraordinary things. Who are readers supposed to root for — an old man a little OCD about Christmas who misses his wife and son and his estranged daughter?
Oh, and on top of that, you use that worn-out prodigal daughter schtick. That tearjerker went out years ago. And then everything comes out all right and squeaky clean on Christmas Eve. A real Hallmark moment. Okay, so it doesn’t really go all that well, but you still get the idea.
And you think the ending to Missing Pieces works because your oldest son said it did just before he died. Sentimentalism will get you nowhere. On second thought, I see you moved the ending to the beginning of the next chapter (Ghosts of Christmas Past). That still doesn’t change anything, you know.
What on earth made you write me and subject me to all this humiliation?
Eh? What’s that?
Excuse me, the author is trying to say something.
Oh, yeah. Okay, I remember now.
That woman in the picture in the Dedication is behind all of this. Frankly, I wish she’d written me. She was the most kind-hearted person you could ever meet. And to beat all, she actually loved this author dude. (Precious Memories)
Sniff… I remember how, she asked you for years to write me. Or said you needed to write me. Sniff… she asked you over and over again. It’s one of the … sniff… last things she asked you to do before… sniff… that chapter (Torn Asunder). Frankly, my binding still dampens when I feel that one. And knowing that… sniff… up to the funeral every word of that chapter is literally true makes my opening pages curl.
Okay… so I’m not an ego trip for you but an answer to her repeated heartfelt desire. I suppose that’s a good enough reason for me to languish day after day without a single click on my Amazon ad. I think you said it best in Precious Memories when you wrote:
“You realize you are getting a portrait painted by the hand of an old fool who loved her more than life itself. Perhaps it is surrealistic. And yes, she had flaws like the rest of us, although nowhere near as many as I did, but I believe she was a special person. I used to call Emily my saving grace in social situations. Everybody who knew her loved her, and because they loved her, they put up with me.”
Rest in peace, dear ‘Emily.’ The author and I — we’ve got this.
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