Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

A number of years ago, my neighbor expressed an interest in my books. Being the  new-author-hungry-for-any-attention sort of guy, I gave her a copy of the first three books in my Fallen Cloud Saga. (No, I wasn’t being stingy; it’s all that had been published at the time.)

My neighbor never mentioned the books again—not a good sign—so, as per my usual practice, I never brought up the subject again.

Fast-forward a dozen years.

My neighbor now has a passel of daughters and, at a board-game gathering, she mentioned that her eldest daughter had read my books. I was surprised, first, because I’d forgotten about the books I’d gifted to her back in the twenty-aughts, and second, because her eldest daughter was still very young, much younger than my usual reader. I knew her eldest was bright—and I mean like scary bright—but at only eight or nine years old, I had no idea that she was reading at (what I hope is considered) an adult level. Anyway, my neighbor went on about how her daughter loved the books, and how she had wanted to talk to me about them but was too shy.

“How many of them has she read?”

“All three.”

“Three? There are more, you know.”

She didn’t, so we hatched a plan to get her a whole set. I’d gather my bibliography in a bag—The Fallen Cloud Saga, The Ploughman Chronicles, Dreams of the Desert Wind, and Unraveling Time—and put it down in the garage. Then, the next time when I was out gardening and the Princess Gang (comprising my neighbor’s daughters and several other little girls from the block, who all dress up in princess gowns and have tea parties) was holding court, I’d bring over the bag of books.

Last week, as I was ridding my lavender of grass-root incursions, a series of high-pitched squeals and giggles alerted me to the arrival of the Princess Gang. I don’t know if it was a birthday or just because it was one of the first sunny Saturdays in a while, but the whole troop of them was out in force. There were yards of pink and purple and teal and aqua satin. There were little electric kiddie-cars pulling slo-motion doughnut circles in the cul-de-sac. And eventually, there was a long table and shade umbrella set up for tea and crumpets (or the equivalent).

I was halfway across the street, bag in hand, when my neighbor spotted me. She called her daughter over.

“Tell Mr. G. what you did last night.”

Timidly, hands behind her back and with (I swear) one foot toeing the ground, she said, “I wrote a story.”

“Wonderful! I want to know all about it,” I said.

And she told me.

Her story is about a singing taco and his sidekick (she used the word “sidekick”) named Strawberry, and about how they go around to other fruits and veg who had been bullied and . . . her narrative faltered and petered out.

“I love that!”

My neighbor, sensing that her daughter had run out of steam, told me that her daughter had also asked, “Mom, do you think I can be an author?”

“You wrote a story, right?” I asked the daughter.

Nod.

“Then you’re an author already.”

She wants to write short stories and eventually books. “That’s how I did it,” I told her.

Did my books or the fact that she lives across the street from an author (of very modest success) inspire her to write, to want to be an author? I have no idea. That doesn’t matter much to me. What matters is that she’s got the bug, and has parents that are encouraging her creative spirit, and anything I can do to help foster that drive in her, I’m on board.

Privately, though, I’ll take joy in the possibility that I might have tipped the scales a bit. I know that I won’t win any Pulitzer Prizes, but maybe she will.

k