The other morning I saw a guest on one of those morning talk shows. I don’t remember the name of the show; they all sort of meld into one another they’re so much alike. A music group, a health segment, light politics, and the latest kidnapping, serial killing, or bombing. I figure broadcast curricula in colleges must include the course, “Formula for pre-commute shows.”
This guest was an attractive young woman who’s an author. She had a laugh like a small bell. She’s written some sort of book telling a person how to send greeting cards to people they love. I think the mute feature is a true gift from God to my remote.
I scanned the New York Times bestseller list today, and nonfiction has really come into its own. Among the top ten are three political books, one more book from an atheist talking about why God is a bummer, a book from Jimmy Carter whose output is regrettably ten times more productive now than when he was president, and something from Nora Ephron called “I Feel Bad about my Neck.”
That’s the state of the nonfiction book world we who write in that genre can aspire to. These books have stimulated enough orders to be classified as best sellers, and I’m guessing most libraries have eagerly clicked to stock them on the shelves in the interest of enriching American culture.
Everyone’s an author nowadays. Only a few are writers. (Kay B. Day/Dec. 10, 2006)