Losing

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time at the library.  I mean a lot.  I could walk there from my house on Warner Street.  The house with its corners full of garbage.  The library was a place I could escape. 

I had a few favorite authors.  Roald Dahl was my absolute all-time fav.  Madeline L'Engle.  E.B. White.  But the number of books my favorite authors had written didn't fit the number of hours I spent in that little brick building.  I went out of my comfort zone a lot.  But it was ok.  A book was an easy commitment to make.  If I opened it and didn't like it, no problem.  I just slipped it back into the little door for book returns.  No one even had to know I didn't read it all the way through. 

There was one book I remember reading about a girl who ordered wings through the mail.  Yes, I think it was something like she ordered these wings from the back of a cereal box.  But, when they arrived and she put them on, she couldn't get them off!  They grew into her.  It sounds gross, but the way it was written was marvelous.  Because these wings became a part of her.  And they allowed her to fly!  What kid--or grown-up for that matter--doesn't dream of being able to fly away whenever they wish?  Well, the best thing turned out to be the worst thing for this girl when the wings grew into her back.  Because, she couldn't be a normal girl.  I don't remember exactly how it ended, but I remember that she went on an adventure with a flock of geese.   I remember how the author actually made me feel like I was flying.  Gosh, it must be 32 years ago, and I remember that vividly! 

I guess my point is, this wasn't a famous author.  Who knows who this author was?  I can't even remember her name and couldn't remember it two weeks after I'd read the book, because I went back and tried to find it again and couldn't.  This author may have only written and published that one book.  Who knows?  Did she win a literary prize?  Ever?  Maybe.  But most likely not.  Does it matter? 

I wish I could write an open letter to that author.  And to myself.  Because we don't write for prizes or New York Times Bestseller List recognition.  Would it be nice?  I'm not going to lie; of course!  Gosh, I really wanted to win that contest (PNWA Literary Contest Category 7 for Children's Literature... There.  Now you know.  Go look it up.  Hmph.)  I wanted to win and run into the arms spread-wide-open of the literary world.  Where have you been?  The literary world would ask me.  Right here.  I would answer.  I've always been right here.  Now shower me with your praises!  Which would be immediately followed by clapping and cheering and fanfare.  And $700 in prize money, which my children have already mentally spent, by the way.

Alas, no.  It wasn't meant to be.  But I ask again... Does it matter?

When I went to the library so many years ago and took down that author's book about a girl turning into a bird, I had no idea who she was.  But what she wrote made a lasting impression on me.  If I could give one child that gift, I will call it good. 

Congratulations to the eight finalists.  You have earned it. 

Begin clapping and cheering and fanfare :)