circular... like a carousel
This morning I woke up to find that one of my remaining two ducklings had died, the probable victim of a snake with big eyes and a tiny mouth. So in one month, I've gone from a sensitive guy who saved five orphaned ducklings from death by automobile, to a guy who let three of those ducklings get killed by his parent's dog, to a guy who has one very lonely, very scared little duck that might or might not live past its teenage days. The mathematics are not looking good.
Naturally, being something of an empath (or a wiener, depending on where you are on the bully scale), I was pretty shook up. I didn't say much--just grabbed a pitchfork to go bury it--but my son (who, like a cocker spaniel, is very in tune to human emotion) tried to comfort me. "It's okay, dadu," he said.
It wasn't okay, though. The duck was dead, and I was being comforted by a three year old. There was something very wrong with that, and I felt like apologizing. "I'm sorry it's a hard world and sad things happen," I said, but without skipping a beat, he broke into a giant smile, threw his hands up and said, "and HAPPY things, too!"
Apparently, he was right. Again.
A few weeks ago, my mom suggested I write to Wendell Berry's publisher. She reasoned that, given that Mr. Berry had given a piece of the book I was trying to sell such a resoundingly positive endorsement, it couldn't hurt to try to work that angle.
In the words of the Fox in Brer Rabbit and the Tar-Baby, "I shore am glad I thought of that, myself."
Easier said than done, though. Wendell Berry is distributed by a major publisher, Counterpoint Press, the sort that rarely look at new authors, and only when those authors are recommended to them by reputable agents (who are just about as difficult to seduce). Still, I figured I'd give it the old forty-four-cent try, and today got back a letter from the Editor in Chief, asking me to email him my material!
So this one goes out to Wendell Berry, Counterpoint, and most of all, mom. The book's by no means sold... but this is a beautiful opportunity that just does not happen.
Naturally, being something of an empath (or a wiener, depending on where you are on the bully scale), I was pretty shook up. I didn't say much--just grabbed a pitchfork to go bury it--but my son (who, like a cocker spaniel, is very in tune to human emotion) tried to comfort me. "It's okay, dadu," he said.
It wasn't okay, though. The duck was dead, and I was being comforted by a three year old. There was something very wrong with that, and I felt like apologizing. "I'm sorry it's a hard world and sad things happen," I said, but without skipping a beat, he broke into a giant smile, threw his hands up and said, "and HAPPY things, too!"
Apparently, he was right. Again.
A few weeks ago, my mom suggested I write to Wendell Berry's publisher. She reasoned that, given that Mr. Berry had given a piece of the book I was trying to sell such a resoundingly positive endorsement, it couldn't hurt to try to work that angle.
In the words of the Fox in Brer Rabbit and the Tar-Baby, "I shore am glad I thought of that, myself."
Easier said than done, though. Wendell Berry is distributed by a major publisher, Counterpoint Press, the sort that rarely look at new authors, and only when those authors are recommended to them by reputable agents (who are just about as difficult to seduce). Still, I figured I'd give it the old forty-four-cent try, and today got back a letter from the Editor in Chief, asking me to email him my material!
So this one goes out to Wendell Berry, Counterpoint, and most of all, mom. The book's by no means sold... but this is a beautiful opportunity that just does not happen.
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