I began blogging as a way of reaching out to connect with other mothers who, like me, were juggling the difficulties of having young babies with other responsibilities such as work and family. And how we wrestled with the fact that creativity and artistic output were often casualties along the way.
I think back over nine years; that is a long time to be documenting anything, and I have changed. Circumspection has crept in. I don’t know how to fix this. ‘Blog like no-one is reading’ is a potential answer. Or is it?
*
We are visiting mid-western NSW. Late one afternoon we went for a walk to a local duck pond. As the sun lowered in the sky, turning it into a canvas of lavender and apricots, the kids darted on ahead and, squealing with delight, announced there were ducklings! A family of ducklings!
There they were, those fluffy creatures, no bigger than a tennis ball, zooming along the water, leaving trails. Another breed of ducks – browner, black-beaked – patrolled around this little family, wary and unafraid to snap at the babies if they dared to venture too close.
It was warm, but I was tired from the travelling and I made it clear that I wanted to head back to the house. Riley broke away from my grasp and ran around the edge of the pond.
Irritated, I called out, “Hey, I said I wanted to go!”
“I just have to look at this view from a different perspective!” he said, calling back from over his shoulder, blithe and assured. Of course you do, I thought. He knew I couldn’t argue with that reasoning.
And so I let him go. I spent an extra ten minutes wandering around, trying to avoid duck shit on the path, while Riley gallivanted on the opposite side; a spot people, judging from the lack of seating or thoroughfare, rarely visited. No doubt the reason for his curiosity, making the temptation even greater.
If he hadn’t said anything as perfect as what he did, I might’ve insisted that we left then and there. Instead, I waited with the wish that more people tried to view things from different perspectives.
*
This exchange has prompted me to be a little less reticent, to fight the feelings I mentioned in my opening. It’s about something that’s been bothering me. My book distributors want me to take back a (fair) number of boxes of Surprise! from the warehouse. They’ll keep some, but want to get rid of the rest. They have been there seven years, after all. An extraordinary run, really. But I knew this time was coming.
In the conversation, the word ‘pulped’ was used. “You can take the lot, or take a portion and we’ll pulp the rest. For free,” she added. As if that would help. (Actually, yes.)
Pulping books is nothing new, major publishers do it a lot. Failed bestsellers; a misjudged market. Reasons aplenty.
But the idea makes me sick. I didn’t know what to say and I got flustered on the phone.
“Have a think, we’ll work it out when you come over,” she said assuringly.
I hung up and wanted to cry. I still do.
It’s the end of something. And I can’t quite figure out what.
*
I have to look at this view from a different perspective.
