The Beginning

Once upon a time, there was a little girl called Vicki who loved books.

Every night she would slide into bed between the cool, pastel-striped flannelette sheets, and her mum would pull up the blankets and the pretty pink-and-white chenille bedspread and tuck her in. Then her mum would ask which book she should read, and Vicki would tell her. Vicki would then listen agog until her mum finally closed the book, kissed her goodnight, switched out the light and went into the room next door where Vicki’s older brother had been waiting patiently for his turn.

Vicki’s mum would also read to her in the daytime when her big brother was at school. Vicki had lots of books and memorised most of them. Her favourites were “The Diggingest Dog” and “Bears in the Night”. She knew them off by heart (and still remembers many of the lines to this day). Vicki really, really, really loved books.

One bright day, Vicki had a brilliant thought. “Ding!” said her brain, just like the carriage return on a typewriter, except she hadn’t yet experienced one of those. “Why don’t I write books and sell them?”

With the courage that afflicts only the very young, Vicki gathered her writing equipment and spread it out on the bedroom floor. The oval red rug was pushed aside and textas and sheets of paper were soon spread out over the polished boards. She was lucky that her Dad worked at the ABC and he regularly brought home pads made of old timetables and rosters, stapled together in one corner. Rather sneakily, the blank white backs of these sheets of paper became drawing material for Vicki and her brother. It was these that she used for her books.

She very carefully penned her stories, a sentence to a page, writing whatever she thought as she thought it. Each page of text was liberally embellished with stunning drawings, if she did say so herself. She studiously designed each book an illustrated cover, complete with the book’s title and, proudly, her byline. “By Vicki” each proudly proclaimed. They were colourful and pretty and she was satisfied. She stapled them together at one side (the left, of course — everyone knew books were bound on the left) and surveyed her work with narrowed eyes.

“What shall I charge for them?”

Her mum was called upon for some expert advice and prices were duly allocated. The books with the fewest pages were two cents, and the thickest was pronounced worthy of a lofty five cents.

It was time for the marketing machine to kick in.

Vicki dressed carefully in her best play clothes. Out came the flared jeans with artfully patched knees, a yellow t-shirt with white trim, and white sandshoes. Her mum made sure her hair was tied neatly in pigtails with her favourite big blue bobbles.

Without further ado, the sales phase commenced. She marched next door to the Kay’s house.

Mrs Kay came to the twirly metal screen door, patting her short grey hair into place, smiling a welcome. Vicki put on her most polite voice. “Would you like to buy a book? I wrote them today. These ones are 2 cents and this one is five cents.”

Mrs Kay opened the door and gravely inspected the books, carefully turning the pages. “They all look so good, I don’t know how to choose,” she pondered. “Just a moment.” She disappeared into the dim depths of the house and returned with a plain leather purse. She opened the metal clasp and fished around for a moment. “Here you go.” Vicki found herself clutching two two-cent coins. Mrs Kay took ownership of the two books she had chosen, and the four cents were gleefully pocketed.

“Thank you!” Vicki turned and ran down the driveway and moved on to the next house down the street.

The neighbours almost without exception at once recognised the value of Vicki’s artistic endeavours, and handed over the asking price without a quibble. In a short space of time, the small print run was exhausted and Vicki returned home in triumph.

She ran into the lounge room, waving her empty hands. “I sold them!” Her mum beamed proudly, and Vicki carefully took her earnings from her shorts pocket. Together, she and her Mum counted the coins.

“Twelve cents!” Her mum was almost as excited as Vicki was. “You’re a published author, now.”

And this, far from being The End, was the beginning.

This post first appeared at www.vmtaylor.com.au/the-beginning.