The Furious Spinner

Just got a missive from Starhawk (not personally; from her list). She notes that even the most anti-capitalists buy stuff at this time of year, so she was suggesting people buy books. I liked her argument so I'm going to bring it here to FS and add some of my own thoughts.

She pointed out that people aren't buying a lot of books these days, except for the bestsellers. If people don't buy non-bestselling books, the other books don't get published. And I can attest to that. Midlist fiction is dying on the vine and so are the writers. I need to pay my rent and utility bills, plus buy my groceries. I can only do that if people buy my books. That's just the way it works. FS is free, and I devote a lot of words to this blog. Books are different. What is written in a blog often does not have the benefit of reflection or time. Besides, you can't get a lot of good fiction on the web. Books still hold the treasure of stories.

So feel free to gift my books to someone near and dear. Counting on Wildflowers was published by a small feminist press so you would be doing them and me a service, plus you'd be getting a good read, remember. (Click on "orders" once you go to the site.) You can be some of the first to order Mercy, Unbound, although it wouldn't be there in time for Solstice, Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanza, or New York. Mario's books are available in print or in a downloadable form. They're charming, imaginative, moving, and/or funny.

If not mine or Mario's, buy books written by authors who aren't best-selling writers. Find someone you've always wanted to read—preferably someone alive. And don't buy used if you can afford it. Writers get no royalties from used books. Buy fiction! Fiction has more truth than most nonfiction. Good fiction is written by storytellers—by those who know how to dip into the mythic stream and come up with ambrosia—and then hold it out for you to drink. To sip or gulp, as you wish. Ambrosia.

And that was my plug for my book. I don't do it often but there it is.

This reminds me of a story, actually. Or an anecdote. I have always loved hearing stories. My father read to us from the time we were wee babes. I often ask Mario to tell me stories, especially if I'm tired or not feeling well. He doesn't mind reading to me, but he doesn't like telling stories. It's too hard, I think, to come up with something on the spur of the moment if you are not accustomed to doing so. I come from a long line of storytellers (fabricators, raconteurs, liars), so it's a bit more natural for me. What he often does is tell me the "good parts" version of a novel he's reading, which I enjoy. Last night (morning) both of us were awake at 5:00 a.m. Mario was certain he couldn't get back to sleep, which would have probably meant he'd be exhausted and cranky at work. So I said, “I’ll tell you a story. That’ll put you to sleep.”

So I whispered a story about a boy who couldn't sleep. He didn’t know what to do until he remembered somebody once saying they counted sheep to sleep. So he closed his eyes and imagined sheep jumping over a fence, and he began counting them. But he got so bored by this that he was even more awake. He decided he should count something that was interesting to him. The sheep stopped jumping over the fence. Instead robots began jumping. So he started counting the robots: One robot, two robot, three robot, four robot. Suddenly the fifth robot tripped going over the fence and fell to the ground in a heap, kind of like the tin man in Wizard of Oz. The other robots keep coming. Six robot. Seven robot. Only now they all kept tripping and falling into a heap, one on top of the other, until the shiny pile grew taller and taller and taller. It almost reached to the moon...

What happened next? I don't remember. Mario fell to sleep and I nodded off soon after, so the ending has faded into dreamland. My guess is that once the boy fell to sleep and the robots were certain he was going to sleep through the night, they climbed down the heap that was them until they were individuals again. They dusted themselves off, did a little spit and shine without the spit, and then went on their way, congratulating each other on a job well done, telling stories about the night they helped save the boy and reassuring one another that they were ready to do it again, any time, any place.

OK. It's 3:00 a.m. and I think that story made me sleepy. So I'm off to bed.

'nite!

All photographs and written material copyright © 2003-2008 by Kim Antieau unless otherwise indicated. May not be used without permission.