By Jonna Ellis Holston
You know how when you meet somebody at a party who sells insurance and you suddenly want to be as far away from this person as the room will allow? Quick, find an excuse. Run away, fast, before you hear the words ‘indemnity’ or ‘term’, you think. Your eyes scan for an exit and then you spot, Sue.
“Oh there’s Sue, I need to go and say hello,” you say… in spite of the fact that Sue reported you to the HOA for the pot of begonias on your door step, and has breath rancid enough to kill a pterodactyl.
Now I tell you, my family brimmed with columnists and authors. Even the great Jack Kerouac married my uncle’s sister, Stella. I remember him and I remember how it used to be, years ago, when new authors were revered. If someone we knew had a book that was about to be published, everyone wanted to know them. We welcomed them, invited them, immediately, to our next party. Now, it seems that everyone has a book. Even I have a book.
A sane person would be discouraged, right? Not me. I find it immensely satisfying to know that this many people have stories so compelling and that they, courageously, sat at a desk for a year or more, perhaps typing with just two index fingers, and wrote their truth. I’m thrilled to know that the publishing industry now provides more options for these emerging authors.
So, recently, I met an author at a party. When I shared with her that my book would soon be published, I saw her eyes scan the room for escape. She settled on doing the polite thing and asked me what my book was about. “It’s a funny account of divorced women who are looking for another chance at love,” I told her.
“Oh,” she said as she took a step back, “that’s a tough sell. Everyone wants murder these days. Violence, madness, they only want to read about twisted serial killers. That’s what sells.” And she walked off to talk to someone else (probably an insurance agent). I had to laugh.
Does she not know that books are magical? They’re not autumn leaves that fall on cold ground only to be crushed by footsteps. Books are the blowpuffs of spring’s new dandelions, seeds propelled onward by angel’s hair that have the potential to soar on towards forever. They find their place; caress fertile soil, cultivate ideas and nurture others who may someday write their own stories, their personal truths.
Blogs, like these, are a wild willing breeze. You never know who will read them. They can make all the difference on earth… to us and to another, would be… story teller.
Write on, authors! Write more… more sex, more murder, more mystery and more love triumphant, because when Nationwide happened, State Farm thrived. And readers, my friends, abound. The world of literature is now limitless.
Note to reader: No insurance personnel were harmed in the writing of this blog.