Thanksgiving is one of my favorite times of the year because I can stuff myself with BOOKS! Now, I know I’ve been griping about how I’m sick of eating books, but that was a week ago, and these books are specially cooked. As you can see from the picture, my family has quite the feast prepared.
But I have to wait until tomorrow.
Mariposa says I shouldn’t be going around thinking about all this food—Thanksgiving is a time for being grateful, she says. “I’m grateful” I told her. “I’m grateful for all the food I’m going to eat!”
Hey, I have to look on the bright side since all my relatives are coming to my house this year. I know that may sound a little harsh, but have you ever had a herd of Authorosauruses over at your house? Well, if you haven’t, I’ve just given you another thing to be grateful for tomorrow.
You don’t think it can be that bad, do you? I guess I’ll just have to introduce my relatives to you so can see for yourself.
Uncle Aword and Afrase
Every year these two break my writerly concentration the second they stomp through my door. They’ll make their yearly attempt to make everyone deaf by arguing about how many millimeters they think an em-dash is. Later, they will finally realize how unagreeable they’ve been and will mutually agree to roar their heads off at the fictionball tournament playing on TV (it’s kinda like football, except the players toss a book instead of a ball and try to tackle other authors with marketing strategies) and stuff their mouths with typo chips (yuck).
I’m not sure whether Aletta makes me feel smart or stupid. It has been her undying duty to inform everyone of the things they already know as if they didn’t know them. She’s barely just hatched out of the egg and hasn’t even written a whole book, but somehow she’s gotten the notion that “the younger and less experienced you are, the more equipped you are to answer all of life’s writing problems.”
He’s a prehistoric old coot who believes one cannot enjoy the scenery unless one uses every adjective in the dictionary to describe it. By the time dinner is over, he will have told me about the rough old days when writers had to actually spell words instead of retyping them different ways until autocorrect got them right. He swears by double spaces and always has a good story up his sleeve—that is, once he finally gets to the action and past the descriptions…
He loads up his plate every year, but he spends most of his time dissecting the food. I have to be careful not to sit too close to him or the sight will make me sick, because by the time he’s done, it doesn’t even look like a story anymore. First he tears the book apart, picking out the chapters and setting them all in a row. Then he pulls out his magnifying glass and dissects the scenes into sentences and the sentences into words and the letters into molecules that look like work.
My mom’s youngest sister lives—and writes—by the seat of her pants. She once packed grammar in her suitcase, but somewhere along the way she lost it and hasn’t found it since. Every year she brings her infamous self-published book for us to eat, but she always undercooks it so we have to eat it raw and risk getting sournovella poisoning. Not that I don’t like self-published books or anything—just not hers.
I think he came last Thanksgiving—I’m really not sure since I hardly see hide nor scale of him. He never says a word and most of the time he’s hiding behind a book, biting his claws like he believes he’s the world’s worst writer. Last time I asked him what his book was about, he sighed and said, “I wish I knew.” Deep down inside, I think he’s probably a great writer, but I doubt he’ll ever find out.
If you think these are bad, this isn’t even half of my relatives (and I only listed the most tolerable ones). I’m not sure whether they’re nuts or I am because I’m posting about their worst habits on the internet (but they probably won’t ever find out—my website is the last place they’d visit).