The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer
Yesterday I drove 60 miles up the Stillaguamish River valley, past the Oso Slide that killed about 70 folks a couple of years ago and into the tarheel town of Darrington for, ironically enough, a book reading given by me, Skeeter Daddle. This gig was sponsored by the local library, a branch of the regional library the mizzus used to work at, the big one that puts on Ted Talks and concerts and such, all those extracurricular to entice the citizenry to view libraries not as museums for Gutenberg, but vibrant places where discourse is aplenty and kids are welcome.
I admit, I had a bad feeling about this, even told the mizzus to stay home and save herself five or six hours of wasted time when the weather was sunny and warm, when we should’ve been picnicking with our fresh caught crab and our newly dug potatoes for potato salad, enjoying a cold adult beverage or six, basking in the lazy hazy halcyon days that are upon us. As I drove up the valley, past the jagged peaks of Whitehorse Mountain and streams filled with glacial melt gurgling into the Stilly, I wondered why the hell I was doing this. There was no remuneration and the possibility of selling a book or two wasn’t going to pay for the gas my truck was using to get there, about ten or twelve bucks, I calculated.
Darrington, even at the height of summer weather, was pretty much a ghost town. I never did see the library that sponsored this gala event, but I did finally find the bookstore and coffee shop where the reading was being held. When I got there the joint was closed, lights off, nobody home. I drove around town some more, made note of the redneck bars I might make use of if this reading had been called off, maybe read to the tarheel transplants some of my little stories about folks quite a bit, possibly too much, like them. I was imagining a story, the last story, with the working title: The Death of Skeeter Daddle.
My reading was at 6. At ten to the owner of the store showed up and we talked while we waited for the crowd. At ten after Larry showed up, ordered an ice tea and we all talked while we waited for the rest of the mob. At about twenty after the librarian who’d arranged this with me showed up and we all three chatted amiably about the state of running bookstores and libraries and such while we waited for the stragglers to show up. At 6:30 we decided this was pretty much the Whole Show.
I guess if you want seconds of Humble Pie, this is how you do it. We all exchanged information about our lives, the kids, jobs, how we got to the place we live, all that stuff strangers introduce themselves with. An hour later the librarian left and Tony was closing shop. I gave him a pile of books and said see if anyone wants to buy them, they’re yours. I handed Larry one too. The box I’d brought just in case the reading public of Darrington was smitten with my excerpts, well, they rode home with me. I stopped along the route home and bought some cold ones. I gotta admit, it was a lonely picnic.
Hits: 380
Tags: book publishing in 2017, book readings
That must have been a long drive back from Darrington, Skeeter. I like to imagine the meeting between you as author, the bookstore owner, and a librarian yielded some thoughtful observations on how we can best carry forward our flickering torches in a world filled with darkness and shadows, even as the harsh glare of LED bulbs close in around us.
Early today I wandered through the analog forest for an hour, or two, just me, the ironwood trees, chattering birds, and along the shoreline the unrelenting waves of a rising tide. I like to think the spirit of Henry David Thoreau was there too, undiminished on this the 200th anniversary of his birth.
Thoreau’s first book, ‘A Week on the Concord & Merrimack Rivers’ came out in a self published edition of 1000. After several years, the printer convinced Henry to take possession of the unsold copies. He needed some extra room in his cellar. When the shipment arrived in Concord Thoreau noted:
“I have now a library of nearly nine hundred volumes, over seven hundred of which I wrote myself.”
Quite often, quality will bear repetition.
I was thinking about Henry David T. yesterday myself. He was 27 when he left the city (okay, it was only two miles) and built his hacienda by the Pond. I was 27 when I left the big city (okay, it was only a two hour drive). I was going to write a little sketch about that, but then I thought, why not take a walk instead. In my own analog forest and analog beach. Someday I should read Thoreau but I suspect it’s too late now.