I have one of this in another side of the world. S, I think, is old enough to be my mother. She’s Australian. She first sent me Graham Swift’s Last Orders via first-class mail. She doesn’t mind paying high postage rates as long as her books would be happy in their new homes. I hope I’m not failing her in this aspect.
Today I went to the MCPO to claim my long-overdue book package. Last Aug. 22 (on my birthday; imagine her timing) she tipped me that she has this Miranda July book up for grabs. I mooched before taking another breath. I got the book today, along with another one in excellent condition, the type you would love to stare at for breakfast. It’s Blood Kin by Ceridwen Dovey, a young Australian writer who’s NY-based. The blurb on the front cover, J.M. Coetzee’s judgment of the novel, got me excited I didn’t even want to work for the rest of the afternoon.
The postcard from S contains the clincher. Here’s her sweet message:
“I’m adding ‘Blood Kin’ to the package– by a young Australian author. I thought you or one of your writer friends might enjoy it!” Cheers, S
I’m pretty fine with the kind of “writer” I am. I get a good-enough income, I buy mouthwash and deodorant and some privilege pass to a middle-class idea of decency. But I really hope she doesn’t have in mind the picture of some bigshot fiction writer. I should have been transparent in my BM profile. “Rank-and-file employee” would have been accurate.
But maybe it’s just classic kindness at work; you want to live up to the person’s idea of you (if I’m assuming right), whatever it may be, how far-reaching it may be. Then there are morsels of distress/guilt/self-reproach starting to creep into your chest once your realize you’re failing to hit the mark.
S mentioned in an e-mail that she’s planning to visit the Philippines someday. Her postcard shows a large cupboard containing fresh produce and books. It has a Philippines travel guide on it, too. I hope to meet her when she comes here.
