Let the Pimping Begin.

A while back, you may remember that I posted about a project that peach was putting together. It’s a book called “You’re Not the Only One“, and it was put together for a UK – based charity called War Child (though there is also a Canadian arm of the organization). War Child is a charity that works with children affected by war in Afghanistan, Iraq, Democratic Republic of Congo and Uganda. War Child works with former child soldiers, children in prison and children living and working on the streets, giving them support, protection and opportunities. The book – proceeds of which are being donated to the charity – contains content written entirely by bloggers. It’s being published through lulu.com, an internet publishing house that does not require payment of any upfront fees (and, incidentally, is one of the enterprises of a certain Bob Young, owner of the Hamilton Tiger-Cats, a CFL football team (arguably) about whose exploits you may have occasionally read about here, here and here. See how the Universe is circular, or possibly just slightly warped?).

Today, I learned that my submission has been chosen for inclusion in the book!

First, a bit of business: I promised, when I submitted my piece that I would purchase the book (done: two hard copies ordered, one already downloaded), link to peach’s post about the book (done: back eyes up four words, please) and pimp the book herein upon publication. Consider it pimped; I have written to peach and hope to shortly get from her some code to put up on the site that makes ordering it easier than going wide on Andy Wozniewski; until then, you may order the book by clicking on this link and following the instructions that the nice people at lulu have written out for you on their website. Oh, and far be it from me to lay a guilt trip on members of my family to buy the book – just because it’s for such a good cause, and it represents the first demonstrable (albeit limited) proof of literacy within our tribe, I would never….ever….play the guilt trip card and suggest that if they really loved me, they’d buy a copy. That would be wrong.

Now, I recognize that my published legacy to date is not an oeuvre whose heft quite approaches the breadth of the collected works of Tolstoy, but it seems to me that – as a published author now – I’ll be needing to make some changes in my life:

• First, I think I have to start smoking a pipe; otherwise, the dust jacket photos are going to look silly. As I have indicated before, I have successfully overcome a tobacco addiction, so in my case it will have to be a bubble pipe. Nevertheless.
• Also, I suspect I shall have to wear slippers more frequently, as it is a little-known fact that it is impossible to make droll observations while wearing a full-fledged shoe, and I shall need to be making quite a few more droll observations from here on in.
• I shall also have to use the word “shall” quite a bit more often.
• It is possible that I need to move to Connecticut, immediately.

In the midst of all this happy news, one little thought is troubling me rather considerably at the moment: what if I am asked, as all wildly successful authors are, to give a public reading of my work? Although my delicious witticisms have been charmingly blessed (through talent, dedication and arduous labour, you understand) with a marvellous economy of prose indicative, I am sure, of natural genius, the net result is that – at 78 words in total – the necessarily abbreviated nature of any such reading may present as somewhat of a disappointment to my adoring public, being so slavishly devoted to the virtues of quality and substantially less acquainted with the merits of pith. For the moment, I have resolved as follows: should I be asked to give such a reading, I shall* stand before the hushed assembled crowd for a moment in silence, letting them take in the image of the author before them: clad in black turtleneck (suggestive of a seriousness of aspect), cargo pants (indicative of a pressing need to carry writing utensils, notepads and other secret writerly paraphernalia in close personal possession, lest inspiration strike unannounced) and fuzzy slippers (as discussed, enhancing the wryness of my clever take on modern life), I shall absently and distractedly raise bubble pipe to my grim countenance. I shall then loudly and abruptly recite only that portion of my composition consisting of vowels, resulting in a long, continuous guttural exclamation that will sound something like, “iaiiiooeoueioieaeiaeaioueaeioeooaaeaiaiaiaaa…”. I shall then do a terse – but meaningful – interpretive dance, and take my seat to the thunderous applause of the crowd. If anyone has the temerity to ask, I shall indicate that my reading is a piece of performance art that is a commentary – and a rather obvious one at that (suggesting, insidiously, that the questioner really ought to have been able to pick up on this for him or herself) – on man’s inhumanity toward man.

If you can conceive of a superior strategy, I would be grateful if you would email me at once with the details.

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* see?