A QUARTER TO FIVE

It’s five o’clock somewhere. – Jimmy Buffett

My first novel, based on twenty years as a counselor in a Midwestern prison, was published ten years ago by an independent press. On the day the book came out, I gave my Aunt Tilley a copy. Aunt Tilley, a Christmas-tree-shaped woman with a penchant for flowered hats, squinted through her thick-lensed glasses and read the title out loud.

“The Sweat of the Sun. My goodness, Jimmy. I didn’t know stars could sweat.”

“It’s a metaphor,” I explained.

She drew a deep breath. “Do you think I don’t know, my dear?”

We were sitting in her luxurious living room, having afternoon tea. She placed my book on the coffee table and gingerly picked up her cup.

“I’m not surprised that you wrote a book, Jimmy. You were such a smart little boy. Do you remember that game we played when you were only two?”

She had told the story a hundred times, but I asked her to tell it again.

“Your very first words were ‘a quarter to five.’ My goodness, such a long sentence—I don’t know where you picked it up. Well, I bought you a plastic wristwatch and put it on your wrist, and whenever we were out in public, I always asked you the time. Of course, I asked at a quarter to five, and that’s just what you replied. ‘A corter to fif!’ That’s how you said it, and you made such a serious face.”

Aunt Tilly stirred her tea and chuckled. “Oh, how the people around us gasped when you said, ‘A corter to fif’’! ‘Gracious!’ they’d say. ‘Such a bright little boy—he’s already telling time.’”

“Are you planning to read the book?” I said. “It’s the first of a two-part series.”

“Of course, I’m planning to read it,” she snapped. “I will also read the sequel. Now, what was that book we read together when you were growing up?”

“Furry Adventures.”

“Such wonderful tales. Do you remember the one about the kitten’s first Christmas? Now, how did that story begin—oh, yes. ‘The turkey was in the oven roasting happily.’”

“Not for the turkey,” I muttered.

She frowned. “What a strange thing to say—you so used to love that story. Now, how about a drop of milk with your tea and maybe a raspberry scone?”

Of course, I knew Aunt Tilley would never read my book, and I felt I had shown poor etiquette by giving her a copy. Who was I to challenge the vista of this sentimental woman’s mind, a horizon belonging to afternoon teas and cozy childhood tales?

Hoping to ease my disappointment after talking with Aunt Tilley, I gave copies of the novel to a few more family members. “The Sweat of the Sun,” my mother exclaimed. “Do you remember the sun in Spain when we took a family vacation there? It made you as red as a lobster—how badly you were burned.”

My younger sister said, “What makes you think I want to read about people in prisons? Prisons are such horrible places. Why don’t you write a romance—I hear they’re very trendy.”

My favorite uncle was sitting with friends in a bar when I handed him a copy. “So, you’re writing books now—bravo!” he said as his fingers closed over the book. Setting it aside, he returned his attention to his friends. “Now, don’t let anyone bullshit you that America makes good beer. I developed a taste for German beer while stationed there in the army. If you want a beer with real body and kick, stick to German beer.” He went on lecturing about the superiority of German beer, and he didn’t spare me a glance as I walked out of the bar. Would my uncle read the book? No, not if there was beer to promote.

I fell into the habit of checking the customer reviews on my Amazon author page. After about a month, I had accumulated a dozen customer reviews. Sadly, not one of them had been posted by a family member. People I would never meet had written these reviews, and although the remarks were favorable, I considered my book an orphan.

My disappointment increased when my book remained low in Amazon’s hourly rankings. Lacking the funds for promotion yet hungry for validation, I was comparable to a street musician hoping to draw a crowd. A few pedestrians might pause momentarily and toss the musician a dollar. Still, the great majority will walk by without sparing him a thought. What I needed was publicity, but I could not afford the cost, so I fed my ego on whatever scrap a stranger might toss my way.

*

A month after my novel was published, Aunt Tilley passed, and I remembered the saccharine stories we shared when I was a boy. She left me five thousand dollars, a sum I hesitated to collect; I felt that such lavish charity had placed me too deep in her debt. But my guilt did not stop me from using her money to buy editorial reviews and solicit online promotions from costly reader sites. I was desperate to escape the frozen tundra where writers are fated to die. I was determined to plunge no farther into that cold and fruitless terrain.

Thanks to the timely intrusion of Aunt Tilley’s unmerited gift, my book began a gradual ascent and is now in the midlevel ranks. It will not take root in untillable soil, a hope I should never have borne, so I wrote the sequel for strangers. It’s entitled The Warmth of the Moon.

James Hanna is a retired probation officer and a former fiction editor. His work has appeared in over thirty journals, including The Literary Review, Crack the Spine, and Sixfold. He is also a former contributor to Adelaide Magazine. James is the author of seven books, all of which have won awards. Global Book Awards has twice given him a gold medal for contemporary fiction.