I thought I’d surprise Cris, Jennifer and their kids last night by bringing them some handmade dolmati when I dropped off my latest set of changes (I am *such* a difficult author). But when I drove up at 7:30, their truck was gone. I parked and hopped the wrought iron gate.
The solar lanterns were starting to glow—white spheres like nesting moons. The trees, quickly moving from emerald to shades of shadow, ring the property and hold up the sky. A darkling sky filled unexpectedly with huge crows or maybe ravens. There were dozens of them. Calling and soaring. Is it really called a “murder” of crows?
Someone called my name. Jennifer stood behind a copse of giant sunflowers, her six year old son, sleepy, his long hair cascading into hers, perched on her hip. He’s almost as tall as she is. She looks tired. In a few days (September 14), Windstorm will turn seventeen and Jennifer will turn thirty-three. Forgive me, Jennifer, but last night you looked older. Weary, my friend. Beneath the radiant fourteen foot sunflowers that she planted around the nine foot post of the Campus’ treasured clock, she looked so… done… and I know I was staring.
She asked me if I read “The News,” which is an incredible weekly newsletter that the Windstorm staff publishes for their contracted authors. It has pictures, features, columns, event reports, and all kinds of insider information that no other press would ever share with its authors. Not only do I never miss an issue of “The News,” but I know for a fact that more than three hundred authors download it every week and have for two years. I know, from interning at Windstorm, that authors adore “The News,” sending in tidbits to share, responding to articles, saying thank you, voting in its polls, and just value it incredibly. Why was Jennifer asking me this question?
“Did you like the photos of the sunflowers growing from seeds to bloom around the clock… or did you think that was just… stupid?” she asked.
That little light bulb lit up in my mind, and even as darkness fell around us, I saw everything clearly. The lanterns lit up around us and we sat down on the edge of a planter beside a patch of sleepy snapdragons.
Sometimes, when we pour our hearts into something, when we are as sincere and open as we know how to be, when we take time we don’t have to waste, when we create something that is a reflection of who we are and we hand it over to someone else, sometimes that someone will take that singular opportunity to drive a dagger through our heart. When we are most kind and sincere and honest, they perceive us as weak and attempt to seize the upper hand. They will try to break us to their will.
Sometimes, I told my publisher, when you show that a corporation has a human face, someone will slap it. And no, it certainly isn’t Christian, but it does seem to be an ugly part of human nature. Just because one author or artist or editor says, “Stop being sentimental, Jennifer. No one cares about the sunflowers.” that doesn’t mean that no one cares. It means that, that *one* person isn’t smart enough to understand that a publisher who plants the seeds of giant sunflowers and photographs them for her authors every week is the same kind of publisher who will work tirelessly to sell their books, sway their reviewers, strong-arm their distributors, and sacrifice, and fight for every advantage to achieve success. God is in the details. God is in the care a person takes.
Some day, someone will trash Mardi Gras 3000 so soundly that I’ll be speechless. They’ll say it takes too much time to prep. They’ll say it’s hard to master. They’ll say it isn’t as nice as the CCGs mass produced by Milton Bradley or whomever. They’ll say, “Good operating system, E.J., but the back story sucks.” Or just, “Waste of money. Skip it.”
And when that happens, Jennifer will walk the review to the shredder and micro-shred it into oblivion. She’ll turn to me, smile, shrug and say, “That’s just one opinion, E.J.. Just one stupid, little opinion.”
Don’t believe the words of stupid people, my friend. It’s their loss that they don’t recognize and value what you have built. They will fall into oblivion and your legacy—the one all of us authors (who love “The News”) are building with you—will only rise.
E.J.
