scottsemegran.com

Back in 1995, I completed my second novel at the age of 24 and went through the process of trying to find an agent or publisher. Frustrated by my responses, and being young and naive and motivated, I started my own publishing imprint: Mutt Press. With the help of my now brother-in-law Chris, who worked as a pressman, I created a proof of my novel and he worked his magic. A couple of weeks later, I had beautifully bound copies of my novel: A Perfect Moment.

Several local bookstores carried my novel. I received great reviews. And I'll never forget a packed Deep Eddy Books where I read the first chapter to an enthusiastic crowd which culminated in a drunken after-party at the Deep Eddy Cabaret next door. Good times!

This is a work of fiction, even though names, characters, incidents, and places are similar to real life. There really is a Mia Ryan and there really is a cat named Angel-Boy, though we actually call him Angey-Butt since he doesn't have a tail and all you see is his... well, you get the picture. I'm not aware of any ant named Anthony, though, and any resemblance to any ants with that name, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 S. E. Semegran
Illustrations by Scott

For Mia

Mia Ryan was a precocious little girl, with big brown eyes and curly brown hair, who lived in the heart of Austin in the middle of the big state of Texas. And Angel-Boy was her fearless companion, a little black cat with magic mittens and a stumpy tail. Mia and Angel-Boy liked to throw quaint tea parties, using her mother's fine china to serve the tea and baking miniature cupcakes to feed her guests. And her guest list always included her illustrious court of multi-colored bears. Everyone would sit around Mia's roundtable, wearing bibs and pointy party hats, telling stories and sipping sweet tea.

Angel-Boy, looking a little bewildered, asked Mia, "Can I have my four-morsels cat food instead of cupcakes? I do not like sweets. They make my paws sticky and my fur fall out."

"How rude, Angel-Boy," Mia replied.

In the past couple of months, I've experienced a great sense of pride when seeing my books in stock at two of my favorite local book stores. There's nothing like seeing my work sitting on the same shelves with other writers or cartoonists I admire. But yesterday I experienced my own little nerdy rock star moment. My books are currently catalogued at the Wells Branch Library. And I can see your reaction now (insert sarcastic eye roll). But let me tell you something, dear reader. Librarians know how to treat a writer.

The special day had arrived. I pulled into the parking lot, found a spot in the front, and ran in the party store. In an effort to save time, I had a concise list of supplies I needed to purchase: 12 napkins, 12 paper plates, one table cloth, and 12 gift bags, all with a particular Disney character on them. You know, the mouse? I also had to purchase six rubber balloons and one Mylar balloon to be blown up into a festive balloon bouquet, weighted down by a festive balloon bouquet weight. You know, because of last time? You don't know? Well, it's best you didn't know at this point. I was on a mission.

I found all the stuff on my list and waited at the balloon counter for the balloon girl to blow up my daughter's balloon bouquet. You see, it was my daughter's birthday, the most special day of all days of the year. Except for maybe Christmas or Halloween, a kid's birthday is the epitome of everything a kid deems magical: candy, cake, attention, ice cream, gifts, more attention, friends, fun, even more attention. It's the end-all, be-all of a kid's existence. And it was my duty to make sure it all went down in the most magical of ways. Shit, the pressure was getting to me. I only had a couple of hours before go-time. And I had to get all of the mouse-themed party supplies to the other mouse-themed place: Chester E. Cheddar's Pizzeria and Party House. I could only hope they served beer there. At ten o'clock in the morning, I already needed a pint, or three.

It had been over three months since I spoke to my father. We had a terrible argument that turned into a fuck-you match.  Fuck you.  Bastard.  Cocksucker. I was resigned to not speak to him anymore.  It didn't bother me, not at all.  It was better than it was.  Shit.

Three months passed.  Three good months.  I wrote a novel in six weeks within those three months.  I grew closer to my own little family.  I discovered the goodness that came from not caring, not caring about pleasing my folks anymore, and focusing on what was important.  My wife and daughter.  And soon-to-be second daughter.  My future.

So when my sister called me three months later and told me that she was worried about my father, I didn't care.  When she told me that he hadn't returned her calls all day and that it wasn't like him to not return her calls, I still didn't care.  I told her not to worry about it so much.  He'd eventually call her back.  Maybe he was out running errands.  Or something.  I hung up.