I’ve always understood one of the most confounding aspects about my existence was how I could have such a massive ego with so little foundational accomplishment.
Why be egotistical when you have zero professional acclaim, skimpy prospects and often less-than-break-even income?
Well, thanks to so many of you, 2018 has been the year when the foundation was poured and warm breezes blown across the forming concrete.
I’m not quite out of the woods, but I can hear the traffic.
I was thinking of this last week after reading and then re-reading again and again a Christmas card from a self-described “fan” in West Virginia.
“This year I have rejoiced in your humor! Thank you for existing!”
Think about that. Thank you for existing.
I matter simply by being a carbon-based life form, albeit one who still finds irresistible the occasional fart joke.
That means merely by falling out of bed each morning I have accomplished something worthwhile. It means I could spend the entire day doing nothing but watching old “I Dream of Jeannie” reruns and the whole celebration of sloth would still be a plus.
Still, just to be safe, I haven’t done that whole “I Dream of Jeannie” thing since the day after Quinn left so it’s been a productivity streak of about 12 straight days.
Please don’t worry about it going to my head, though.
It wouldn’t fit.
True story: I was buying a local newspaper — yes, I’m that kind of old school, the kind that pays actual cash for organic news — when the cashier concluded our transaction with, “Thanks! You guys have a great day!”
I turned around. The store was empty. I was all alone.
I had no idea my multiple personalities were visible to strangers.
Cool!
But the tangible successes of this year, relatively minor as they may be, have been soulfully refreshing.
People love the Palmer book, but that one to me still feels like a gimme. Any “storyteller” with the kind of access I had to Palmer could write a decent book about Palmer, just maybe not one HOF broadcaster Jim Nantz would say is “the best book anyone’s ever written about Arnold Palmer.”
But I digress.
I’m hoping the six months of happy hoohah culminates tomorrow at my Tin Lizzy book signing, 5 to 9 p.m. in Flappers, but kicking off at 4 with Jessie in the Main Bar. I’ll be signing three of the seven books I’ve authored — the three that don’t really, really suck — for just $15 each.
Also for sale will be the deluxe edition of “Use All The Crayons!” It’s the book for anyone who enjoys this blog and the observations I post on Facebook and Twitter. The other book, my pride and joy, is “The Last Baby Boomer,” the satirical novel I stubbornly believe is the one that will allow me to once and for all consider myself a real writer — a successful one to boot.
This is from one of 17 5-star amazon reviews: “I literally laughed out loud and discovered tears welling up in my eyes at various points in the first 50 pages. It's really an incredible work of artistic humor writing. Can't recommend it enough.”
I’m proud I’ve authored three distinctive books in three distinctive genres and that each one has earned the kind of praise writers dream about when we stare at a blank screen.
Maybe ’19 will be the year one of the three busts through to commercial success.
A friend of mine said the trio of books make the perfect stocking stuffers.
My friend is incorrect. Know what makes the perfect stocking stuffers?
Feet!
So please stop by The Tin Lizzy tomorrow and show your support. I’ll be grateful if you buy books or make a stipend Christmas cash donation if you enjoy reading the blog.
Can’t make it? I welcome checks or PayPal from friends all around the world. Message me (storyteller@chrisrodell.com) for contact details.
Either way, please keep checking in and referring me, my blog or my books to cohorts whenever you find us worthy.
And, hey, I mean this …
Thank you for existing.
Related …
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment