Last fall, as I struggled to come up with a marketing plan for the book, my dear friend and advisor, Will, held up the book cover, looked deep into my eyes and said, “You have no idea where this book is going to go and who it’s going to affect.” How right he was.
I’ve got three stories for now. My husband’s brother Rick and his wife Ellen are on a grand adventure. Sold their home of 25 years, bought an RV and are touring the country gathering stories which Rick, a retired newspaper editor, is posting on his web page rickholmes.net. Along the way they’ve discovered Little Libraries in RV campsites filled with books where people are encouraged to “take one - leave one” as they pass through.
Rick and Ellen have been long time supporters of my work and their latest form is a doozy. They bought twelve copies of my book, Healing My Life from Incest to Joy, and will be leaving one in each of the Little Libraries they find along their way – like the pictures above of Ellen at the one in Marathon, Texas – a place Rick describes as “two miles from nowhere”. The thought of my book living in those little libraries is a thrill for me. Like a message in a bottle I wonder if I’ll ever hear back from any readers who make a trade for it? Stay tuned!
Second story. If you read my January 26th posting you know how fired up I was with the Judge and Olympians. After I wrote that piece I traced down the Victim Advocate for the prosecuting attorney in that case. I offered to send a complimentary copy, through our Books To Survivors Project, to any of those young women interested in getting one. Today I heard back that, so far, three have requested a copy. Be still my heart!
Third story. I did several readings/dialogues in Florida last month – all to the credit of a top-notch organizer - my daughter, Jennifer Grace.
At one of the readings, during my dialogue with the audience, a man who looked to be in his 60’s stood up and offered an amazing disclosure to everyone present. He said, “I’m the product of incest. I grew up believing my grandmother was my mother and my mother was my sister. OK – take a moment for that one to sink in.
The static in the room’s silence was palpable. I mostly told myself to breathe and keep eye contact with him. And then he said, “Hearing all you read to us tonight helped me understand my birth mother more than I ever have before.”
Dare I say that was a gift? Well, it was. To have my work do something like that is worth all those countless times I struggled with or pounded myself internally striving to get my story onto the page.
I can’t wait for Will to read this posting so he can say, “I told you so.”
Thanks for reading, Donna
Jennifer and me.