I recently ran into a friend who said, "I read your book, Chain a Lamb Chop to the Bed, and I loved it."
Thank you," I said, turning bright red [I always turn bright red when someone says she/he loves my books].
"But," she said.
Uh-oh, I thought, the dreaded but.
"I got it at the library," she said.
I gave her a bone-crushing hug.
For the record, I was a "library kid." Picture a plump Shirley Temple with red curls, emerging from the Bayside [N.Y.] library…hands cradled around books…so many books…so many adventures to share…the top book anchored by my chin.
Now, if you’re an author [published or non], repeat after me: "Librarians are our friends. Despite their hectic schedules, librarians read books. Librarians recommend books. Libraries buy books."
And what’s more, librarians do their best to order a book requested by a patron. It’s true. If everyone who reads this blog requests…oh, say, Chain a Lamb Chop to the Bed, librarians will try and get it for you.
I dedicated Eye of Newt to librarians.
When I saw my first published book in a bookstore, I was thrilled. When I saw it in the library, I lost my breath. Literally. Finding my breath, running up and down the aisles, I shouted, "Come! Come! Come! Come!" As if I were the Pied Piper, people followed me back to the New Book Section. "Me!" I said, pointing. "Me! Me! Me!"
And the people smiled.
‘Tis the merry month of May and, as promised [and rib-nudged], Bea will start her serialized suspense story today. In fact, she’s pushing me aside and reaching for the keyboard right now…
GOLDIE AND THE THREE BEERS
by Beatrice Brooks
Twenty-six-year-old Goldie Locke, named for Goldie Hawn—her mother was watching Private Benjamin when her [expletive deleted] water broke — heard heavy footsteps rounding the [expletive deleted] curve behind her. The dense, dark forest was deserted, as dense, dark forests usually are in the middle of the night. Which led to the question: If a Mime fell in the
forest, would anyone hear? Even more importantly, would anyone care?
That very question kept running through Goldie’s head, reverberating like a kettle drum [or, in Goldie’s case, cymbals], as, frightened out of her [expletive deleted] wits, she began shedding stuff in order to make herself lighter. And faster. Her [expletive deleted] wallet, her [expletive deleted]
keys, her maxed-out credit cards, her laptop computer, three library books, and, finally, her [expletive deleted] clothes.
Naked, bosom bouncing, Goldie ran as if her life depended on it…
Tune in next week for the second installment.
Over and out,