Humor by John Christmann
Author, Author
Over the years we have acquired a sizeable library of children’s books. Some of these books we purchased, but most were given as gifts by relatives and friends who felt they were somehow enriching our kids’ minds. If they had taken the time to read some of these books, they probably would have given television sets instead.
Don’t get me wrong. I love books and I have always loved reading to my children. But some of the works that still populate our house are really bad. I realize I am hardly qualified to be a literary critic; but as a guy who thinks that Green Eggs and Ham should have won a Pulitzer, I am not setting the bar all that high.
I just think children’s books should be somewhat engaging for parents, particularly at bedtime when the only thing standing between an adult and a martini is a lengthy ode to smelly cheese written by Garrison Keillor.
Honestly, it seems as though anything can be published these days. Put together an obscure animal with a distinctly human activity and you have the subject for a book. Something like Walruses Don’t Sing Soprano or Accounting with Aardvarks could easily pop up under a search at Amazon.
Silly names or references to bodily functions are also a big hit. Don’t Smell Mr. Saggybottom’s Feet, or Squeaky Billy’s Tight Trousers, or If You Give Grandma a Prune seem plausible titles. Throw in some eye-catching drawings by friends with wasted artistic talent and voila, a book for kids.
It seems to me that a successful children’s book has two important attributes: colorful illustrations and a reading time of ten minutes or less. Text and story line are far less important, which is why Jay Leno, Peyton Manning, and Madonna have all added authorship to their resumes.
All of this convinced me recently to write a children’s book. Of course, there are thousands of aspiring authors with no other credentials than being parents who are bored reading mediocre books to their children. But fueled by the conviction that if I put my mind to it I could write a mediocre book too, I decided to become an author.
Here is my book. It is titled, Bashful Bud’s Big Dump. It is the story of a can of beer who lives in a rent-stabilized refrigerator on East 24th Street with his brothers and sisters and a wilted head of lettuce named Louis.
One afternoon The Big Hairy Hand, Bud’s landlord, forcefully separates Bud from his five siblings during a halftime commercial break. Bud spends several harrowing, but adventure-filled days in Manhattan’s refuse disposal system, hitches a ride on a barge down the East River, and eventually finds his way to a recycling center in New Jersey where he is re-united with his brothers and sisters, thousands of distant cousins, and some assorted flies. It is a story of friendship, family, and ultimately, redemption.
My book can be read in less than two minutes and is made of shiny waterproof cardboard with a convenient circular cutout the size of a beer can so it can be used as a coaster. It is vibrantly illustrated cover to cover with spray paint and computer generated clip art. The print is big and bold and sparse and can be read under a night-light without reading glasses. The pages can be easily turned with one hand.
In fact, it looks and feels like every other book sharing shelf space in the Children’s section at Barnes and Noble.
But I am not stupid enough to believe that publishers will ever accept a book by a first time author like me. Oh no. This is why I have taken Sarah Palin as my pen name.
Look for me in bookstores soon.
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