I think
most would consider a ten hour day, suffering through a heat index of 95
degrees, among thousands of South Carolinians, during a book signing and
paperback sale only to sell two books and one T-shirt, an absolute fail.
Add into that, having your booth situated between Obama's definition of
"God and Country." The Gideon’s handing out mini, Clemson
colored bibles to everyone and anyone who passed by, whether the unsuspecting
"passerbyers" wanted them or not. And a couple of hunting club
members raffling off, what I think may be the largest shotgun I have ever seen,
as if they were carnival barkers on meth. In fact, most potentials arched
wide to avoid the biblical giveaway only to be driven, like heat stroked
cattle, to the Jurassic Park size dino-hunting gun on the other side
inadvertently avoiding me altogether. So epic fail right, I mean by my
own description, it seems like an awful, vaguely hilarious, unbelievable ironic
Peter Griffin segue at best. However, and you knew that was coming, and
if you didn't, I can only say, really? In that near half day of giving
away numerous one sheets and explaining to festival attendees, who would lend
me their brief, sweaty ears, about why I wrote the novel and a deeply abridged
summation of its characters and story, I discovered a small group of
individuals who were willing to share with me their own stories of trial, pain,
loss, and triumph as cancer invaded their lives and the lives of those whom
they love and loved.
A woman who proudly and defiantly announced her 20th year
of surviving both breast cancer and then battling Myeloma. The family
celebrating their son's remission from Leukemia sporting neon green graphic T's
to memorialize their gratefulness. The woman who fought, through tears,
to tell me about her mom's recent passing. Then her rape, at sixteen
years old, and the subsequent the daughter, created from that assault, that she
had to surrender for adoption because of her drug addiction. She wept as
she confessed to me the comforting vision she had just a few weeks ago, her
deceased mother, looking healthy and at peace consoling her, telling her that
everything was going to be alright. The myriad of precious souls battling
this disease and its nightmarish hydra of forms, standing strong despite their
prognosis, wanting not just to survive, but to live. Stories that
constrict the heart and both inspire and torture the spirit. I gave them
each an armband emblazoned with the slogan that was first spoken by my own
mother. One that I have since adapted to my own life and hope to instill
deep into the minds and hearts of my children.
It is within that stretch of oppressive humidity and capitalistic
defeat that I realized why I wrote this book. Maybe I knew it all along.
To tell the story of characters that may be not so fictional after all.
They are images, symbols, shadows of the people I know and meet everyday
who wage war, moment by moment, against a monster, a machine, that possesses no
mercy or distinguishes between its opponents and victims. An immortal
entity that seems to fear only one thing, the undeniable strength and
perseverance of the human spirit. It may not, in the end, be the cure to
its physical toll, but it is without doubt, the indestructible force that
overcomes the mental, emotional, and spiritual assault that this predator
utilizes as it tries to ravage the body. I saw it in the eyes of every
one of those wonderful people who took a moment to recount their own stories.
I saw Alex, Kayla, Rick, Tara, and Jude visit me time and time again as
the day progressed as the sun relentless cooked the asphalt below us. And
as we spoke, laughed, consoled, and baked, I watched a simple science fiction tale
transform into something very special.
The story of hope, not just as a tag line, or catchy literary slogan
meant to grab the attention of my potential audience, but real, unadulterated
hope. An evolution I am not worthy to call my own, extremely humbling,
overwhelming gratifying. And although, my dream, is to become a
successful, and yes, a bestselling author, even though I know that is taboo to
admit and many of my peers would cringe to have a fellow pen pal admit to such
a selfish thing. Because we are all doing this for the mere pleasure with
no intention of renown, and if you believe that, let me dig into my magical bag
of beans because I know I have a sure thing of sale. No, I do want to
leave a legacy of literature that gives something unique and treasured to its
audience, and at the same time, make a career of writing that I have dreamed
about since I was sixteen.
But
after today, I was given the privilege of witnessing that words and ideas do
matter, they can matter in a way that defies preconception and careful
planning. They matter with such depth that they transcend
entertainment and interest and, sometimes, engage the most secret, fragile, and
intimate parts of our essence. And with that new revelation, that sudden
enlightenment, I realize I have a huge responsibility to that knowledge, to
wield it with the utmost in care, concern, and caution, as not to ever abuse or
trivialize it.
So, I
failed in the most productive and amazing way ever, and I can't tell you how
deeply moved and satisfied I am about that. Not in a way that would do it
justice. I embrace failure, it is the most effective teacher, wisest
professor, and keeps our ego and humanity in check. Those who are afraid
to fail will never truly succeed. And if I fail in a way that gives
gentle souls an opportunity to express their innermost tribulations and
victories, then what a spectacular and beautiful failure that is.
So, with all of that said, I move on to the next book signing, eagerly anticipating
my next education.
No comments:
Post a Comment