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Between a Q-Tip and a Tennis Ball in a Hard Place

Saturday, I found myself at a reception and celebration for the winners of the "O,Georgia! Writers Foundation Contest." There was a release of the book that is a collection of the winning stories, and a coordinated book signing. It was Southern. There simply is no other way to describe it. In a little town with a strip-mall feel called Cumming, Georgia, under a tent on the lawn of Humpus Bumpus Books, I celebrated with the "next generation of Georgia writers" the prize is supposed to recognize. Very quickly, I came to realize I'm two (maybe three) generations younger than the Georgia's next generation of writers. There were 60 or 70 writers who won the prize, half being fiction and the other half non-fiction.

I got sandwiched between two women from Athens, Georgia, who are in the same writing group with each other, so they knew each other enough to have a banter. To my left was a spindly woman with a full head of hair that made her look a bit like a Q-Tip. My right had a round woman, her hair pulled into a bun so tight, she looked a bit like a tennis ball. They also each had an entry in last year's book, so had been through this before. I asked them how this was supposed to work.

"Well," said Q-Tip woman, "people come up with their books for you to sign, and generally you sign it on the first page."

"Sometimes people want you to sign the index," said the Tennis Ball to my right, referring to the table of contents.

"Oh yes," said Q-Tip. "And I usually come up with a word. You know, just something inspiring."

"Yes," added Tennis Ball. "I generally just put a bible verse, because that's what I know."

"And I just put something, say, like..." Q-Tip put the cap of her pen in her mouth and looked aimlessly into the air, the universal sign for deep thinking. "A word like, 'Enjoy.'"

Between the salutation 'Enjoy' and John 3:16, I really had nothing to discuss with the Q-Tip and Tennis Ball, so I sat there most of the day, reacting like a house plant might to their conversation.

For three hours, we sat at the long table for all the winning writers, and a line formed as people walked from author to author, collecting signatures. I must have signed some 300 books Saturday. And throughout the day, people of all shapes and sizes and Southern fashions would come up and say, "Hmpff. 'Savoring Endorphins With Pride.' Now, that's the most intriguing title in the book. I can't wait to read what that one is about."

Q-Tip and Tennis Ball must have thought I was a house plant because they constantly found the need to speak on my behalf. "Oh, I think it's just really terrific, the title," Tennis Ball would say to the person handing me a book. "So creative. I can't wait to read it either." In this context, the use of creative means: 'I don't understand these words, but it sounds really important and groundbreaking.' Reading the first paragraph, one would think it's about kissing a girl. It's only later in the story, after the reader is hooked that he learns it's really about a boy kissing a boy.

"You know, his story is all about a kiss!" added Q-Tip, who only had time to read the first paragraph.

The person handing me a book, generally a red neck of the finest order, would say, "Damn. Must have been one hell of a kiss. I can't wait to read that."

"Your name?" I would ask.

"Jebb, with two b's."
I'd turn to page 257, and next to my title, "Savoring Endorphins with Pride," I'd follow the suggestion of Q-Tip and sign my one word: "To Jebb, Kisses, Timothy State."