The beauty of writing is that the author holds the fate of all the characters in the tip of the pen. The horror of writing is that the author has no control over the fate of the work.
If that day were a story, I suppose I’d write something full of warnings, signs, and omens. I’d wake up, knowing something was off and urge myself to go back to sleep.
It was sunny. Not a cloud in the sky. A beautiful desert winter day. I’d been in the area a few weeks and had ventured into “the big city,” a tiny town called Lordsburg that was a little more than a half hour drive from my home-base.
In my travels, I found Dimension Coffee, a coffee shop that sold books and had a friendly cat who greeted visitors. It is hard to say whether it was the cat, the books, or the coffee that drew me in, but anyone who knows me would say it was the cat. They would probably be correct.
There was also a library in town, so like a good little indie author attempting shamelessly to promote my books to any literary venue, I packed the saddlebag with copies of my work and fired up the bike.
Before I even made it onto the main road, my journey was halted. Perhaps it was one of those signs, omens, or warnings that I should turn around before the day got worse, but who believes in that?
The delay was a caravan of oversized loads. Not uncommon to the area, the large turbines loaded onto trucks had a way of halting the almost non-existent traffic. Never being in a hurry, the trucks didn’t bother me, but they certainly ruffled the feathers of the true locals.
I turned off the engine and popped the visor up on my helmet. The drivers of the pilot cars worked efficiently to guide the semis and halt traffic (me). One of the trucks had a dog co-pilot who smiled while standing tall in the seat. When has a smiling dog ever been a bad omen?
The caravan cleared the way. I popped the visor down, started the engine, kicked it into gear, and set off to see a cat about some books.
The beauty of the desert is that there is usually no one else on the road. The horror of the desert is that there is usually no one else on the road.
I was more than halfway into my trek when I saw a black speck in the distance. It wasn’t in the road, and it didn’t look like it was moving. There were plenty of cattle in the area, but the speck seemed too small. The desert has a way of playing tricks on one’s perception from a distance.
As I got closer, I still couldn’t make out what I was seeing. It could always be road trash, but until I knew if it was animal, vegetable, or organic polymer, I decided slowing down was best.
Finally, I was close enough to see that the black speck was feline in nature. I could see its green eyes watching my approach and I urged the cat to stay put. In true cat nature, it didn’t listen.
The cat bolted out in front of me, and I swerved to change course. However, the cat quickly had the same thought and turned to head back the way it came. I swerved back and narrowly missed the cat’s tail. Unfortunately, this put me on course to hit the gravelly shoulder.
Before I even knew what was happening, the front tire sunk into the loose gravel and I was down on the ground with the bike on top of me. I looked up to see the cat becoming a speck in the distance again.
The beauty of having a light motorcycle is that you can lift it off should you end up underneath it. The horror of having a light motorcycle is that is still hurts when it falls on you.
I quickly shut off the fuel and assessed the situation. Nothing felt broken, but I wouldn’t know for sure until I got the bike off my ankle. I lifted the bike but couldn’t free my foot. My shoe was stuck but luckily, I was able to slide my foot out of the shoe.
My initial thoughts fell in this order:
1. I am glad the cat is okay
2. I hope the books are unscathed
3. Now my mom will worry about me even more
4. I suppose it’s good I wear a helmet
5. Damn cat!
I knew I had done some damage after getting the bike back upright. A few battle scars on the bike weren’t going to be a problem, but I could feel the road rash on my hand, my elbow, my knee, my ankle.
Still, I didn’t check my wounds. I opened the saddlebag and examined my books. Just like the cat, they were safe. Surely that should be a good omen.
Since I was closer to my destination than home, I decided it was best to carry on with the trip. There was a visitor’s center a few miles ahead and I figured they would have a first aid kit on hand.
They didn’t.
I threw my leg back over the bike, joints actively swelling with each move, and carried on to Dollar General to build my own first aid kit. I had taken a moment at the visitor’s center to inspect the damage. They didn’t even have paper towels at the center, but my triage guided me through the aisles to gauze, hydrogen peroxide, tape, and cold compresses.
There, in the Dollar General parking lot, I cleaned and dressed my wounds and was grateful to have escaped with only a minor tear in my pants so that I looked presentable enough to deliver books.
I swapped my new supplies for the books in the saddlebag, making sure I’d cleaned all the blood off my hands first.
Did Stephen King ever hobble to a library to donate books?
Has Margaret Atwood ever had an ice pack stuffed up her sleeve on the way to a bookshop?
Well, at least we’re all better off than Edgar Allan Poe.
I pushed open the door of the library and threw on my best smile as I approached the counter. I’ve never examined myself in the mirror, so it is entirely possible the smile is more creepy than inviting.
“Hello,” I said to the librarian. “I am an author and I called before to see if I could donate my books to your collection. The women I spoke with said that would be fine, so here they are.”
I placed the stack on the counter and pulled out a business card.
“Feel free to contact me if you are ever in need of an author for an event.”
“Okay,” said the librarian. Almost as an afterthought she added, “thanks.”
I waited awkwardly for something more but quickly realized the moment for what it was. I knew the books would never make it on their shelves. Where would they end up? On their “free shelf”? In the trash? Burned? I could only hope that I was wrong, but ever the pessimist, I knew their fate.
I needed a cat to cheer me up. Good thing the next stop was Dimension Coffee. As I rounded the corner, I saw Teddy’s white and orange frame wandering the sidewalk.
The bookshop was small and I knew from my previous visit they didn’t have space to take books on consignment, but the owners were gracious and provided delightful conversation, so I brought a copy of one of my books just for them. You did read that I wrote “shamelessly” promote earlier, right?
I related the day’s events while sipping coffee and petting Teddy. As I did whenever telling the story over the next few weeks, I began with the preface, “the cat is okay.”
The beauty of scars is that they remind you of what you’ve overcome. The horror of scars is that they remind you of what you’ve overcome.
This wasn’t a life-threatening accident, although with any accident, the slight variation of any factor can make it so.
The rejection of my books was not a major life event. It’s happened before and will happen again.
Good conversation, coffee, and cats are all parts of everyday life that may not stick indefinitely in one’s memory but should never be taken for granted.
That day sticks in my memory though. Not because of those events, but what I saw weeks later traveling that same stretch of road.
The sun was setting behind the mountains and painting the sky a beautiful golden pink hue. I saw a black speck in the road. I knew before I even saw its flattened form what it was.
The beauty of writing is that I could change the ending of this story. The horror of writing is that I will still know the truth. We all live to die another day.
Autumn Siders 