Writer, Inc.

Last Monday, Station Shorts was put back up on Lulu. We resolved our problems. One writer left not only the project, but the entire message board. She took her marbles and left in a huff. The person she was 'defending' in this maneuver, remained and is still included in the book.

With her departure and the tentative loss of another writer's work, we included two new writers and three more of my stories. I ended up with a dozen pieces in the book. Out of 70 or so stories. We lost only one writer and the new version is actually a longer book than the first.

I placed my order soon after awakening on Monday morning, before something else untoward happened. Lulu has myriad printing and shipping options. They ranged to nearly eight times the actual price of the book to dirt cheap. I chose 'dirt cheap' as I had already waited for over a month to get it. I could wait a few days longer without getting all upset.

I got a notice that my book shipped on Wednesday and it arrived in Saturday's mail. I'm not sure how much faster any other shipping method would have worked. I had my printed and bound book in hand in under a week. I was and remain absolutely thrilled with that. Ecstatic, even.

I know that I am writer because I write. I write a blog. I write a serial fiction piece. I write historical essays. I write. I'm a writer. But to date, everything I've written has been available on a screen or off my very own printer. I've never seen my words printed elsewhere and bound together and for sale. I don't see any profit from this – all proceeds go to Amnesty International. But apparently my work is good enough to think that maybe someone somewhere would pay to see it. Thrilling.

A few months ago I joined a reading group. It is interesting enough that I joined a second one as well. Last night I went to my first writers group. I had this scheduled for a few weeks now. This was not predicated on receiving my book in the mail. I opted to act more like an author than simply a writer. And I was pointed in the direction of this group and was told that I would be welcome should I opt to attend.

They, too, have a compilation book on sale. A Gathering of Flowers is at Amazon and is advertised as poetry, short stories, and essays.

I met the editor of the local newspaper (and two more small local papers), a woman whose 18th book had hit the stands that day, local names I recognized, and other people dedicated to the proposition that words are important. I had a lovely evening and actually felt included.

With each new tentative step I take, I feel that I'm coming closer and closer to being the storyteller that my mother used to speak about – her own Daddy. Francis Francis was born in Ireland, had the instinctive gift of gab that is often bestowed by Kissing the Blarney Stone, and was said to be a delightful story teller. I've kissed the Blarney Stone, walking up and then down the 100 steps to reach it and return to ground. I believe it was symbolic because my 'gift of gab' remains in the same high gear it has always been in. What has changed is the number of times I've written the stories down.

I started first with my voluminous account of my trip to Ireland. The Emerald Island is captivating, our stories were personal but timeless. The beauty of castle ruins, the joys of traveling with a group, and the bonding experience between sisters and mother was unique.

I wrote an entire travel book about our adventures in Alaska and found that to be as fun, but for different reasons, as my first travelogue.

And now, I'm a published author who is part of an authors group. The only thing I really miss right now is being able to tell Mom. "Hey, Mom. Can you hear me now? Isn't this grand?"