There are things you expect to lose while publishing your first novel. Sleep. Money. Whatever pleasant relationship you once had with your printer. The respect of your friends, neighbors, and acquaintances once they actually read your book. 🫢
I didn’t expect to leave an entire batch of my own face in a Walmart shopping cart.
They weren’t autographed. I hadn’t even looked at them yet. Somewhere out there, somebody may be walking around with them. My publicity campaign apparently launched without me.
I keep imagining somebody’s mother finding them.
She’s putting away laundry. Opens a drawer. Finds a collection of photographs of a middle-aged man who bears a suspicious resemblance to Wilford Brimley.
“My boy is into some weird stuff.”
How do you explain that?
“It’s an author, Mom.”
“What does he write?”
“Horror.”
She looks at the photographs again.
“Well, he’s good.”
Meanwhile, I’m trying to conduct myself like a respectable author. Signing books. Packing boxes. Arranging interviews. Supporting libraries and veterans. Helping newspapers find something to print besides another photograph of a pothole.
Then there are the author photos.
I imagined people discovering my work through a compelling interview or a thoughtful review. Instead, somebody might discover me while searching their son’s room.
I would like to clarify that owning several photographs of me does not make us an official fan club. There is paperwork. We haven’t invented it yet, but there will be paperwork.
The next night, I’m working late and decide to order more photos.
Five hours later, I get an email saying there’s a problem. My order is delayed.
Fine. I can’t sleep anyway. I work through the morning, then take a two-hour nap. That brings me up to three hours of sleep.
Hallelujah. Practically a coma.
I’m on my way to pick up my son when another email arrives.
Your pictures are ready!
Naturally. They were delayed until I needed to be somewhere else.
I collect the boy and prepare for Wally World. But first, we need to go home and get a paperback for the Childress library so readers have something to check out while we wait for the two hardcovers to arrive.
Signed copies of Midnight Radio are now available on the website, by the way. See how casually I slipped that in? Professional.
“Hey, boy, do you want to go to the library?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you have a library card?”
“No.”
We arrive just as Sara Burton is leaving. I stop her to talk, then immediately feel guilty. She probably needs to pick up her own kid. Now she’ll be collecting him at the principal’s office like I did the day before because a shipment of books arrived and apparently I can only remember one responsibility at a time.
We confirm the signing date.
November 5. Four to five p.m. Childress Public Library.
I have mentally scheduled this event for several dates in at least two different months. I don’t have my phone with me, which is where I keep the portion of my brain responsible for appointments.
Sara escapes.
Summer starts getting my son signed up for a library card while he investigates their large touchscreen display.
“Stop it, boy.”
He continues.
“Stop it.”
Still going.
I deploy the look.
Nothing. Three hours of sleep has apparently taken the batteries out of it.
I suspect he’s trying to jailbreak the thing so he can watch Unspeakable.
Meanwhile, I call about my new glasses. They’re ready, but the optician isn’t there to adjust them. The office won’t be open tomorrow, either. It’ll be Monday before anyone can help.
Damn.
I hang up.
I think she was still talking.
Damn it. I hate when I do that.
“Come on, boy. Stop messing with the library sign. That’s for advertisements.”
He’s playing a monster truck game.
The throttle and jump controls are approximately seven feet off the floor, but he’s stretching like a tiny criminal determined to finish the job.
He finally leaves it alone and gets a Dog Man book.
We head to the optician’s office. I greet the woman at the desk and give her my name.
A cold chill passes over me.
Yep. Hung up too early.
The entire office is retiring and closing in two weeks. This woman is almost free, and here I come to be one final asshat.
She hands me my glasses, a lens cloth, and the secret cleaning juice in the little clear bottle with the office label on it.
I thank her and put the glasses on.
Crooked as hell.
My ears are crooked. This turns out not to be one of my major deformities, but we’ll get to that.
Friends and neighbors, I can see again!
On to Wally World.
The boy wants a salted butter squish toy.
Have you seen these things? A fake stick of butter you squeeze to relieve stress.
It specifically says salted. Apparently unsalted pretend butter isn’t soothing enough.
I remember to go to the back and collect my photographs. Another successful act of remembering. Two in one day. I should probably sit down.
When we get home, I open the package.
“OH MY GOD. LINDA!”
There’s a giant ridge down the center of my forehead.
I look like a Klingon who retired from the Empire to warn people about diabetes.
“Would you look at this? What happened to my HEAD?”
Linda suggests we compare the print with the original photograph to find out what went wrong.
Excellent. A printing problem. We can fix a printing problem.
I open the original.
The ridge is there, too.
Well, hell.
Looking at the original picture with that forehead ridge makes me wish I couldn’t see again. Just like the night I took it.
Damn, damn, damn.
I go look in the mirror. I’ve only just gotten glasses that let me see properly. Perhaps I’ve been walking around with structural reinforcement in my forehead for years.
Eventually, I settle down.
That’s my face.
So fucking what?
At least I don’t have to take another picture or order another batch.
After the day I’ve had, that qualifies as good news.
Then I remember the first batch.
Somewhere, that mother is still standing over an open drawer.
“What is that on his head? He looks like a damn Klingon with crazy eyes.”
And to the person who ended up with those photographs: I’m sorry. I hadn’t seen them yet, either.
Had I known, I would have included a stick of emotional-support butter.
“Hey, I can hear you! What are you doing in there?”
_Mom