REASONS TO WRITE . . . AND TO READ

NOVEMBER 18, 2021 – A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I published a novel, Severance Package, which I described oxymoronically as, “a satirical business thriller.” I gave it passing reference in a post several days ago. The book was the most serious case of vanity I’d ever attempted and manipulated to fruition. I fooled myself into believing I was . . . “a writer.”

In promoting the novel I worked with a PR agent to arrange signings at local bookstores—attracting mostly friends and acquaintances. But I confided to the agent, “I’ll consider the book a success when I see it in the hands of a total stranger.”

Shortly thereafter, my wife and I attended a realtor’s open-house at a newly listed home owned by “a total stranger.” We followed the agent into the kitchen, dining room, living room, then down a hallway to the library. There the walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with great literature, popular fiction, and an impressive collection of histories and biographies. The realtor waited patiently as I surveyed the spines. Suddenly—voila! I came upon Severance Package and drew it from the shelf. (It was next to a set of Grisham novels.)  As I pulled a pen from my pocket to sign my book, the realtor dropped his jaw and hollered, “No!”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m the author. I’m gonna autograph it” . . .  except . . . I’d already signed it, either at a local bookstore or before having shipped a box of books to Amazon for fulfillment of online orders. Over my signature I added, “Thanks for making this book a success” and slipped the volume back in place next to The Street Lawyer.

The coincidence of that occasion, however, paled compared to a more recent occurrence, which unfolded as follows:

Soon after the book’s publication in 2002 I’d signed and sent a copy to the late Bill W., dear friend of my sister Kristina and late brother-in-law Dean, Bill’s roommate at New England Conservatory.  All three were also members of the Portland (ME) Symphony.  Bill, a percussionist, later moved halfway round the world to join the Honolulu Symphony. He was one of the world’s greatest unsung comics, a gifted writer and an all-around brilliant, nice-guy.

From my sister I learned that Bill’s widow had read my recent post in which I’d mentioned Severance Package. Intrigued, she ordered a used copy online, which arrived shortly thereafter. When she opened it, she discovered inside, my inscription to none other than . . . Bill. His sizable collection of books had been donated previously to Goodwill and now had boomeranged back.

As is said, “What are the odds?”

Long past the delusion of being “a writer,” I discovered reasons to write: creating a record, ordering thoughts, tightening arguments, refining expression, and facilitating introspection. Most important, perhaps, every story creates a reason to write and . . . a reason to read. Stories—lived and imagined, told and heard, written and read—are what bind us paradoxically into a boundless work called, Humanity.

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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson