I dropped my older two children off with my MIL and FIL this morning to sort of camp at a state park. I say sort of because my in laws have a camper. I don’t really think you get true camping credit if there is no tent involved. And I really wish they would call the thing a camper rather than a travel trailer, or just trailer, as my daughter is constantly writing about staying in “Mom mom’s trailer” in her journal at school. Now I have nothing whatsoever against trailers. Frankly, I find their compactness soothing. But, well…
Anyway, so I’m at home alone with my little guy and without his older siblings to play with, I’m it. I tried to do some gardening with him but he kept running his train over my marigolds and ripping off potato leaves. I don’t care how cute he is when he says, “choo choo” that just could not keep happening. So we headed back inside. Well, the heat was more than either of us could tolerate without getting whiny so we ventured out in the world. There was ice cream involved. And we ended up at the bookstore, dumping ground for the uninspired time spender.
Don’t get me wrong, I like me some bookstore browsing. I mean, honestly, judging from the popularity of the big chains, who doesn’t? Normally, only having one child with me, strapped in a stroller no less, would have been mommy heaven. But for some reason, instead of soaking up the carefully created atmosphere, I was overwhelmed by how many freaking books were there. If someone, I can’t think of anyone right now, but say a person was thinking about writing a book, what a humbling experience to walk into a place like that.
I went to the bargain section where books had big red circles on them and were being sold for $2. And I thought of how excited those authors must have been to get published. How they did a little jig and called their mother. How they went to the bookstore and saw it on the shelf and couldn’t believe it had actually happened. Their very own name was right there in print.
Do those authors ever go back and see themselves on clearance? Does the ephemeral nature of notoriety feel like a gut kick, or is it just par for the course after a long ride? The next time I meet an author, I’ll have to remember to ask.
I like to throw things.