I had a friend. His name was Brandon. He died. He was in his early 80s, so he was supposed to die, right? But Brandon had a goal. He wanted to be the oldest ever first-time-published author. I loved Brandon for this goal, and I thought he would meet it, because he was a damn fine writer.
Then he died.
One of the things I am thankful for in my life is that Brandon’s son called me and let me know Brandon had died. Brandon and I were writing group friends. We swapped work. We emailed back and forth. I got zapped back to me printed copies of my stories scrawled with red ink, the hell edited out of them. I knew Brandon, he knew me. But our interaction was in a limited loop. It did not include his family. Thus my thankfulness.
Now I’m picking up Brandon’s banner. I want to be the oldest ever first-time-published-Southern-phenom author. I am not talking about literary acclaim. I’m talking about accessibility. A FUNNY Southern writer. Okay, okay. I’m not gonna be the next Kathryn Stockett. I have limits to my aspirations. But I want my place in the pantheon. And, in Brandon’s name, I’m going after it.
here’s to creative synthesis . . .