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Book

Eric Burbridge

    This story could be called an excerpt from a memoir. It didn’t start that way, but whoever reads it will relate to some part of it. I write well. I enjoy telling a good story; all kinds of stories, true or false. My teachers and instructors said, “James, you are doing yourself a disservice if you do not pursue a writing career.” I didn’t want to write professionally; that’s work. I prefer fun, but I waited to see what my dad would say. His elderly state of mind made it difficult to get a straight answer. “Jimbo, do the right thing for...” He drifted like that every time I asked. I took it as a yes.
    How do you do that fresh out of high school? My counselors advise me to do this and that; and I did. But, I lost interest. I carved a small spot in my heart for writing and parked it there. I’ve been a sci-fi guy since Flash Gordon was on TV. That’s right, I watched him every Sunday on the Community Discount Store hour. I think that was the name; if not they sponsored it.
    I still loved to read and paperbacks were under a dollar. I loved to browse in the bookstore. My favorite, Kroch&Brentano’s in Chicago, but Walton’s knocked them off. Then came the other big chains and now they’re gone. The digital age was upon us.
    Every writer dreams of the big one and let’s not forget about the movie fantasy. I have read and seen movies that I could do better. After decades I decided to open the spot in my heart and let the writer loose. Money wasn’t an object. I took a fiction writing course here and there; submitted here and there; got rejected everywhere and one day.
    Yea, an acceptance! Look out publishers, here comes Jimbo.
    When the euphoria subsided I settled down and devised a writing strategy. Write several short stories in several genres until I’m ready to tackle a novel. I know that is not unique, most things aren’t, it’s who gets there first. My dad told me that once. For three years I’ve written twenty-five short stories and at my age anything can happen. I self published them in a nice neat package. Beautiful title, cover and description of its content. I was so proud. My eagerness to share, what I call a monumental accomplishment, with friends and family was met with a cool response.
    Why do people say, “I want to, will or have started writing a book,” and they and you know damn well they won’t?
    “Give me a copy I want to read it.”
    Give! You know they won’t read it then.
    I know other writers know what I’m talking about. But, I admit I mailed cards to out of town family members to download a free E-book.
    I haven’t heard a word.
    At the family reunion I brought several copies along just in case. No congrats or inquiries; I got nothing. Don’t get me wrong I come from a good family; I love them, but they don’t read. However, a relative and a friend of the family are writers. They offered critiques of my work. It seemed to be more ridicule as time went on. I couldn’t get them to say if they’ve been published or completed a manuscript to save my life.
    They’re jealous!
    Now it’s time to continue to work on my novel creating different situations and worlds on paper. And, for those who disagree. #@%! ‘em.

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