I have some tales from Christmas. Some are wonderful. Some are harrowing. Some are crazy. I'll share them later. For now, though, I have to share the story of tonight. It starts with this story that I wrote last year:
Bubble Story
It was written at the request of my Mother-in-law, who wanted me to write a story with a happy ending. I thought about it for months, and never came up with anything. I have virtually no ideas of my own, you see. I can shape words to create pictures and feelings and even, on occasion, sounds, but without a plot, the words come out empty.
It was in exasperation that I wrote The Bubble. She wanted a happy story, and I could think of nothing happier than bubbles. Unfortunately, as happens with all bubbles, it popped. The story itself was happy, but the ending was actually quite sad. I gave up on the idea of trying to write a story with a happy ending.
Interestingly, she loved it. LOVED it. She used it in a Church lesson that she presented. She bragged about it to her friends. She asked me questions about it. She double-checked to make sure it was her story, that I had really given it to her, that she could do anything she wanted with it.
It was a doodle. It was nothing. I freely gave her license to do anything she wanted with it.
The year passed. I had a baby. I struggled through and passed a very hard class. I cooked dinners and mended fences and wrote other doodles and helped friends and trained a horse and started a business and completely forgot about The Bubble.
Tonight, though, Hubby's parents came to join us for a post-Christmas celebration. Traumatic things had happened which had interfered with all of us having a traditionally nice Christmas. We all wanted a chance to make up for that lost time together. We had saved our presents from them, and when they came, we opened them.
Oh, there was so much joy! Chocolates! And Toys! And Movies! It was a very happy evening.
We had opened them all. All but one. That last one was for me. It wasn't supposed to be finished for another 3 weeks, at least, but it had shipped in time and was here. I opened it, and discovered a book. It was a children's book.
It was called The Bubble, and it was written by Chelsea Roberts. It all looked very official, with pretty illustrations, and even a dedication to Hubby, Schprid, and Wooble. There was another dedication from the artist. All very official.
I opened it up, and read my story. My doodle. My nothing, that suddenly became a fulfilled dream. It was not just a one-time story that got matched up with some pre-existing pictures and turned into a gimmick. It was my story that had gotten partnered with a real artist, and a real publisher, and the hopes and dreams of an entire family that worked for a year to keep it a secret.
I laughed and laughed and laughed and then I cried. It was amazing. I have been published. People want to buy my book. Librarians and teachers want to buy my book. It was nothing, and then it became something big. I can barely comprehend the enormity of what has been done. My heart is full to bursting, and I don't know what to say or think.
Yes, I do. Thank you. Thank you to everybody who has ever read my words, who has ever loved me, who has ever let me love you. That reaction may be a little expansive for a small children's book, but few things have ever meant so much to me. So, I thank you.
My book will be sold on two different websites. Lulu.com and Amazon.com will both have it on sale, and I'll let you know as soon as it is.
