The Extra and the Ordinary

The princess looked at her more closely. “Tell me,” she resumed, “are you of royal blood?”

“Better than that, ma’am,” said Dorothy. “I came from Kansas.”

(from Ozma of Oz by L. Frank Baum)

A few weeks ago, during an author visit to a group of sixth through eighth graders, one boy raised his hand and asked me, “What’s it like to be rich and famous?” I had been warned by experienced authors that this is one of the standard questions, though it’s sometimes phrased, “How much money do you make?” Ah, kids get right to the point, don’t they?

So I suppressed my guffaw and answered as best I could, trying to convey the truth: the publisher makes most of the money on each book sold. (Publishers also have lots of expenses.) I’m neither rich nor famous. Most writers aren’t.

But the boy had seen the PR on my bookmark that says I had a bestseller at one time. Years ago, but still . . . Was I not rich and famous, he wanted to know. I tried to explain that those sales numbers accumulated over the years – and then I dodged further questioning by calling on someone else.

Thinking back on it later, I had to admit that the boy was partially right. I’ve touched the hem of “rich and famous,” and I know some of the downside. You can easily feel like a commodity, the cash cow, a product instead of a person. Often what gets lost in the shuffle is you. People relate to the you that they imagine you to be, and since they’ll never really know you . . . well, they’ll never really know you.

Rich is fleeting. So is famous. But while you’re carrying that backpack, it can get awfully heavy. It takes a good deal of grace to carry it well. Rich and famous is the extra. Sure, it means that people like your writing, and it gives publishers the confidence to offer you another book deal. But the real satisfaction comes from the ordinary: the actual writing, the working of the intellectual and emotional puzzle that becomes a book.

For those of you who are not writers, the concept still applies. In the everyday world we all inhabit, finding satisfaction and contentment in life depends on how we adjust the lens through which we view the world. True contentment is found not when the extraordinary becomes ordinary, but when we can see the ordinary as extraordinary.

The student looked at her closely. “Tell me,” he resumed, “are you rich and famous?”

“Better than that, young man,” said the guest speaker. “I’m a writer.”

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Finding the Platform

Platform.  When I began writing umpteen years ago, I never associated platform with my words and stories. But these days platform is crucial for writers. Not necessarily for the process of writing, but for pitching and selling what we’ve written. To an agent. To a publisher. And ultimately to readers.

A platform is something you stand on – literally or metaphorically. It’s the foundation. The support. Or for PR, it’s your handle, the hook. It’s what interests people, catches their attention, makes them sit up and take notice.

Writers of nonfiction have it easy when it comes to defining their platforms. The platform for a writer of health-based cookbooks is health-based cooking. The platform for writers of parenting books is their particular viewpoint on parenting. The problem for many writers of fiction, including me, is that we can’t see our platforms. What’s the angle that will interest interviewers and draw readers? I thought maybe writing was my platform. But no. Maybe the subject of my first three novels: angels? No. The historical setting of my novels? No. The craft of writing, or angels, or ancient history may interest a few people temporarily. But what happens when I write another novel, maybe contemporary and without angels. Or a picture book? Or . . . I couldn’t get my mind around my platform.

Then a few months ago, I attended a media-training workshop offered by my regional group of Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, or SCBWI. Mimi Bliss of Bliss Communications guided about twenty of us in the art of being interviewed. She challenged us to think about what our “angle” was, our platform. Mimi gave us tips on the art of being interviewed, and an interesting discovery came to light as we watched Mimi interview each volunteer. The rest of us found ourselves intensely interested primarily in who they were. After we became fascinated by the author and her life, we were interested in what she had written. The authors were their own platforms.

Most of us were surprised that everyone else thought our lives were interesting. I think we feel rather ordinary and dull. But believe me, the writers interviewed that day led very interesting lives. We all left realizing that other people find our lives interesting.

According to PR wisdom, a writer’s blog is supposed to highlight the writer’s platform. So, for better or worse, for the foreseeable future (sounds like a wedding vow!), on my blog you get me – my thoughts, my musings, and if we’re lucky, inspiration. Maybeso.

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Scene 14: The Ancient Book of Tobit

Tobit sat cross-legged under his fig tree, leaning his head against the trunk, his eyes closed. Why he bothered to close them, he didn’t know. Open, closed, it made no difference. He saw nothing. But somehow closed eyes and rest went together. Force of habit. And, by force of habit, when he heard a knock at the gate, his eyes flew open.

“Hannah,” he called. “Are we expecting anyone this time of day?” He heard her sandals scuff from the direction of the house into the courtyard.

“No doubt someone with a torn robe that needs to be rewoven. By this evening,” she muttered.

The knock came again, this time accompanied by a voice. “Father? Mother? I’ve returned.”

Hannah let out a cry, her sandals clipping at a run. Tobit rose, fumbling for his walking stick. “Tobias?” he shouted. He heard the gate open. Tobias and Hannah both talked at the same time, Hannah in a scolding tone. Tobit caught the words smell and wash at once, but there was joy in her voice.

“My son!” Tobit headed toward them, wishing with all his heart that he could see.

“Father!” Tobias’s footsteps sprinted across the yard. He smelled of fish.

Tobit laughed. Had his son come back by sea? A foolish, roundabout way to come home. But what did it matter now? He opened his arms wide, but instead of enjoying his son’s embrace, he felt Tobias slather ointment on his eyes. The vile stuff stank like fish and stung like fire.

“Gah!” Tobit pushed his son away and rubbed his weeping eyes. They felt scaly. But the scales were sloughing off like shedding snakeskin. “Light!” he whispered. He saw light. He rubbed and blinked and wept until he saw his son, taller, bearded, tanned, and richly robed. “Is it really you?”

“It is.” Tobias grinned, wiping his hands on a rag.

Tobit didn’t wait for Tobias to toss the rag aside. He embraced his son long and hard.

“I’ve returned with your money,” said Tobias. “And a wife.”

Tobit drew back and scanned the courtyard. Hannah – beautiful, white-haired Hannah – stood beside his son’s tall traveling companion. “Where is your wife, then?” asked Tobit.

“Raphael and I ran ahead. She’s on the way with . . . just come and see.” Tobias drew him toward the street.

Tobit strode confidently alongside Tobias to the city gate, marveling at the buildings, fountains, donkeys, birds, trees, men, women, children. And –

“Sarah,” said Tobias as a beautiful young woman bowed before them.

* * *

That night Tobit, his son, and Raphael sat around a brazier in the courtyard. After Tobias recounted all that had occurred on his journey, Tobit looked across the brazier to Raphael, who sat on the other side. “We’ve not paid you enough,” he said. “You are responsible for my son’s good fortune. And for my eyesight.” He blinked away a blur and felt a tear slide down his cheek.

“I am well paid,” said Raphael. “When you said your first prayer as a child, Tobit, I was with you. As you raised your son, I was with you. When you left your wife’s fine dinner to bury the dead, I was with you. You prayed, as did your daughter-in-law, and I brought the remembrance of those prayers before the Holy One. God sent me to free Sarah from the demon and to cure you from blindness.”

Tobit stared at Raphael. “Who are you?”

Raphael stirred the coals in the brazier. “I am one of the seven holy angels who offer up the prayers of God’s people and enter the presence of the glory of the Holy One.”

Tobias prostrated himself immediately, but Tobit bowed slowly in awe, his newly restored eyes feasting on the sight of an angel in his courtyard.

“Don’t be afraid. Give your thanks to God.” Raphael rose. “I must leave now, but know that I am with you. Peace.” The angel grew taller and thinned like a rising mist until he vanished.

Tobit hosted a seven-day wedding feast for his son, so for a second time, Tobias and Sarah joyfully celebrated their marriage. Then they settled into a normal family life with Tobit and Hannah. Tobit lived to be 158 years old, and Tobias gave him a splendid funeral. A few years later Hannah died. Tobias buried her beside Tobit. As for Tobias, he and Sarah and their sons returned to Ecbatana, where they inherited Raguel’s property. There, at the age of a hundred and twenty-seven, as Tobias lay on his deathbed, he heard a familiar voice call his name. There stood the tall angel Raphael, his hand extended. “One more journey,” said Raphael.

“One more,” said Tobias. He reached for Raphael’s hand and felt as light as air.

- the end -

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Tobit, circa 200 BCE. Illustration courtesy

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Scene 13: The Ancient Book of Tobit

“Ah, Nineveh!” Raphael pointed to the dark rectangle on the horizon. “We’ll arrive before nightfall.”

The thought filled Tobias with fresh energy, and he lengthened his stride. “Home!” he called over his shoulder to Sarah on her donkey. Her two maids rode beside her, followed by a wagon of goods trailed by herders and drovers with sheep, goats, oxen, and cows.

Tobias laughed at the sight. He had left home a boy on an errand with one companion; he returned a man with a wife and an entire caravan. What would his parents say? As he looked again toward Nineveh, his smile faded. What indeed would his parents say? They had no idea he was returning. He could hardly show up at their gate unannounced and expect them to host the whole entourage with no notice.

Raphael cleared his throat. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? We should let your father know you’re returning.”

“We’ll send a runner with a message,” said Tobias.

“Better yet, you and I can run ahead,” said Raphael. “Do you still have the fish gall?”

Tobias glanced sidelong at Raphael, who after all these weeks still seemed in many ways a stranger. The man obviously had unusual powers and insight, but this fish business was weird. “Fish gall,” Tobias muttered, digging into his waist pouch. “I still have it.”

“Keep it in hand.” Raphael shot him a challenging grin and sprinted ahead.

Tobias broke into a trot, careful not to squeeze the packet, which to his dismay, he could now smell quite well. Fortunately when they reached Nineveh’s massive walls, the odor mingled with scents of the city. He and Raphael shouldered through crowds swarming through the main gateway, a grand tunnel that echoed with shouts and calls and clattering carts.

By the time they reached the street where Tobit’s house stood, the matter of the gall had retreated to the back of Tobias’s mind. But as he headed for his father’s gate, Raphael tugged him aside and spoke in a low, serious voice. “Remember how I instructed you to get rid of the demon?”

Tobias nodded. “With the fish heart and liver.”

“That night you were afraid enough to try anything,” said Raphael. “This time you are not afraid.”

“Should I be?”

“I’m talking about trust. You trusted me last time because you were afraid. This time you must simply trust.” Raphael nodded at the packet of gall. “Open it and smear it on your hands.”

Tobias hesitated, but Raphael’s eyes searched his. Trust. Tobias swallowed his protest and untied the smelly packet. A bitter taste swelled in his throat.

Raphael nodded his approval. “As soon as you see your father, rub the gall on his eyes. It will sting.”

Tobias eyed Raphael warily as he smeared the fish gall on his fingers. Then he approached his father’s gate, humiliated. Over the past few weeks he had been bathed, perfumed, and robed in silks. Now he was to present himself to his father, smelling like a fisherman returning from a year at sea. He shot Raphael a glance of disgust.

“Trust me,” said Raphael.

Tobias knocked.

- to be continued -

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Tobit, circa 200 BCE. Illustration Tobias and the Angel by follower of Andea del Verrocchio, c. 1470-5 courtesy Dover Books, Angels.

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