By Terri Elders
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
~William Wordsworth
"We'll find something special to put between these," Ken said, weighing the pair of heavy black A- and Z-shaped bookends in his palms. "What a gorgeous gift.
The two of us toured the house, looking for a suitable spot to display this Christmas present from his youngest son.
"Maybe on top of the entertainment center?" I asked.
I always deferred to my husband about grouping paintings or positioning the potted plants and knickknacks that crowded the shelves and tables of our airy home. I'd often thought that with his unerring eye for spatial relations, Ken would have made a successful interior decorator.
"Sure. We can put them there now and figure out what books they'll hold later."
A few months later, I received notice that one of my stories had been selected to appear in an upcoming anthology, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Celebrating Brothers and Sisters. Subsequently, I received my contributor's copy — the first book I'd ever held that contained one of my bylined stories. I'd been published in periodicals dozens of times, but this was different. This was a book!
I handed it to my husband.
"Look inside where I stuck the bookmark. It's my story. I know it's only one book, but can we put it between the A and Z bookends?"
"I've never heard of bookends holding only one book," Ken said, with a chuckle that sounded like a blend of snicker and snort.
"Oh, don't worry," I replied. "I'll soon have more."
I walked over to the bookends, tucked my book between them, and stepped back. It looked a little lonely there, like an orphan in need of a family.
"How many books do you think would fit up there on top of the entertainment center?"
Ken cast a professional eye in its direction.
"If they're all paperbacks, there's easily room for fifty. But even two or three would look better than one."
"Well, that one's pretty special, since it's my first. But I'll conjure up some companions soon. Fifty sounds about right."
Ken raised an eyebrow and chuckled.
"Didn't you say these anthologies want true stories, things that have actually happened? Do you think you really have fifty stories to tell that people would want to read about?"
"I don't know. I've got loads of memories I'd love to share. You're right, though. Fifty's a lot."
"Baby, make it easy on yourself. Try for a dozen."
"No... you said there's room for fifty."
Ken shrugged and walked away as I hunkered down at my computer.
So I wrote and sold a second story, and then a third. From time to time, Ken would ask, "How many books have you got up there now?" Sometimes I'd overhear him on the phone, bragging to friends that I'd placed yet another story.
I'd always read them to him before I sent them out.
He'd scrunch up his face in wonder. "How do you remember every word your mother said to you when you were six?"
"I don't," I confessed. "It's literary license."
"Aren't they supposed to be true?"
"They are," I insisted. "But I write what I think sounds like what Mama or my brother or you would have said."
Ken grinned. Unable to recall much about his own early days, he liked hearing about mine. So I continued to track down memories I could translate into tales.
One day, I noticed that Ken's skin looked sallow. He'd complained that morning of lacking energy. I made an emergency appointment for him with his doctor. Jaundiced, he had to be hospitalized for tests and an MRI, and the diagnosis turned out to be horrific: pancreatic cancer.
Throughout the next few months, I doubted I'd be able to continue to write. Sometimes I'd sit at my laptop, stare at the page, and wait for the words to come. Then I'd remember I promised Ken I would appear in fifty books, so I'd write another story. He'd nod approval as I read aloud.
By June 2009, when Ken died, eleven books were nestled between the bookends, a burgeoning family. On the actual date of his death, UPS delivered a box containing my copies ofChicken Soup for the Soul: Tough Times, Tough People with two stories about Ken and our lives together. Now the bookends embraced the neat dozen he'd suggested as a fair goal.
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Still, I longed for that original fifty. At first, in my grief, I feared my muse had fled. Soon, however, I found solace in remembering more of our adventures, so once again I began to write and submit. I could still do it, even without Ken sitting in his favorite recliner waiting for me to read him my latest effort.
As I write this, I've lined up more than fifty bewitching books, with several more scheduled to be published over the remainder of the year. Now I've set my sights on seventy-five.
When I'm feeling lonely, it lifts my spirits to see the anthologies assembled between the A and Z bookends, bookmarks saucily inserted between the pages where my stories begin. While I used to begin my morning with a cup of tea and a chat with Ken, now I've substituted reading an anthology story as I sip.
Should I ever write an autobiography, I doubt I'd find an interested publisher. I'm not a celebrity. My name's not a household word. Nonetheless, I'm blessed to have found a way to publish my life's story, chapter by chapter, through these collections.
A few months ago, I staged a workshop at my local library, "A Penny for Your Thoughts," on writing narrative essays. Sixteen people showed up, eager to learn how to put their lives on paper.
"Nobody gets rich writing for anthologies," I admitted. "But look at the other compensations. Writing puts zing into your days, zest into your life."
"Yeah," one man interrupted, "and you've got a published work!"
Later, I received a note from the librarian. She wrote, "It was such a treat to hear you read your stories... Your tips and experience in the field were so valuable. Your audience was completely captivated!"
I'd read two of my stories — one about my grandmother's funeral, and one about becoming a grandmother myself. The audience hung on my every word. And when I finished, they applauded. Even Ken, appreciative as he may have been, never did that.
What a gorgeous gift those bookends remain: A for applause... and Z for zing and zest!
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