Writers Will Understand

My mother’s neighbor is a Santa Claus. Mom arranged his first gig and she is responsible for his Santa career. He and his wife are childless and they have known me since my early teens. This past year he could not play Santa because he was diagnosed with cancer. He underwent treatment and has a clean bill of health today. During the long months of chemotherapy, he needed a distraction, so he started writing a story. We encouraged him because him well that’s what you do for a family friend. He became obsessed with the project. He drove my Mon nuts with his stories of getting the thing published. The book is about the real Santa, a Santa who foils bank robberies and cures people of cancer. He told me it’s to help adults believe. During my recent visit home, he called and wanted me to read the first three chapters and offer advice. Here’s where I sound like an ass. I didn’t want to read it, but I offered encouragement anyway. Look, I don’t get home often, it was Mother’s Day and damn me I wanted to spend time with my Mom.
His novel was a hand written manuscript. He paid some woman at the local paper to type it for him and correct his spelling. My advice, write about what you know, speak your truth, keep knocking on doors, don’t self publish no one will ever take you seriously, blah, blah, blah. He says, “Thanks Shef, aren’t we just the two writers chatting, I’ve known you since blah, blah, blah.” I say, “Yeah, I know, sorry I can’t read it, only here for a short time, blah, blah, blah.” My Mother calls tonight saying, “You won’t believe what’s happened.” It took all I could muster not to say, “What my old boyfriend rise from the grave” (See other blog to get reference). “Santa’s got a book deal,” she says. He sent the book to ten publishers. He got three rejections, one offer of a contract, but Simon and Schuster are interested and he’s holding out for the best offer.
I’m happy for him, really. I’m also getting drunk right now. I want to scream at my university, “WHAT THE FUCK DID I PAY YOU PEOPLE FOR.” To quote Jethro Mc Givens, “I hate my life, I hate it, nobody loves me.” If you don’t understand my frustration, bitterness, or drunkenness, that’s okay, writers will understand.