I have no recollection of this

I acknowledge that, to some, I have made it. I have nine books published and was traditionally published until Double Dragon Publishing went out of business because the owner wanted to take up painting full time (and has thereafter tried every few weeks to make the Wikipedia page about the publisher about him instead before editors revert it).

I do not generally feel I have made it because I do not think in those terms outside of strangers recognizing me for my work, which has happened twice. Once, a young woman asked if I wrote Artificial Gods and couldn't explain how she knew about that book. The other time, a woman in the grocery store asked if I was the man from the paper, then clarified that she actually recognized Amber, who the reporter photographed as well, because they are cuter than I am.

My audience at the Pine Bush UFO Fair loves me. This is not precisely the panel that landed with a plop months ago. I've omitted a few cryptids and added weird theories to which I do not subscribe, per se, as well as emphasizing lights in the sky and resemblances to Grays. Still, it is not a distant cousin of that failed panel.

The twenty people in folding chairs under this canopy laugh where I want, even in bits I do not intend to be that funny. The point of events like this is to avoid being playful with the sacred text of Fortean phenomena, which is my method for most things. I love the stories and believe the witnesses saw what they said to the greatest degree they could. But it's all a bit silly, isn't it, talking about nine-foot floating monsters and bulletproof goblins assaulting your house? We can acknowledge that this world of improbabilities deserves a giggle or two, surely?

Even the skeptics deserve snickering for truly daft over-explanations. Joe Nickell, the man I pretend is my nemesis, seems to blame all cryptids on birds, primarily owls. The subjects of my talks need not be transdimensional goblins from the stars, but rural witnesses know what owls are.

After my talk, people stop by my table to tell me they loved it. They don't all buy books, but I would not expect it. That I sell ten today is enough for me, if only so I have fewer to cart home.

The woman looks over my nine books displayed.

"You must be older than you look if you wrote all these," the woman notes.

I think for a moment. I don't know when my age became intangible, so I need a moment to recollect. "I'm forty-three."

She is astounded, which beats her thinking by a wide margin, which is a bit old.

"I keep busy," I say. "I have two other books ready."

This does not confuse her less.

I am simply doing what is in my nature: I'm a writer. I write.

I have an anthology on the topic of recursion ready. I've had the next entry in the Night's Dream series prepared for six years; only Double Dragon went out of business, and Amber is still laboring to finish reformatting We Shadows. I have an idea for a depressing book of pet stories based on some entries titled The Dog Dies. That would be a side project while I work on fixing a sci-fi novel I queried and now find lacking and needing a significant overhaul. After that, I have a list of ten books needing finishing, some needing only a light polish and others needing most of the book written and the rest made worth reading.

In the midst of this, I will do these events. I will appear on podcasts. I will do research that molders in folders on my computer until I decide it is ready. It is what I must do to get you to read me.

A film crew stops by to ask if they can interview me. I say yes because I am occasionally filmed, and the footage disappears into the ether. It takes the pressure off when I say something awkward.

They interview me behind a church until a neighbor firing up a weed whacker becomes disruptive. They have a professional camera and boom mic, so they are far from as amateur as some I've been delighted to chatter to. Years ago, a German television program interviewed me, the footage of which is likely lost to the internet. Still, they dubbed my few seconds with a more authoritative German voice. A student Academy Award winner recorded me in different years for a documentary he had yet to finish.

Later, I googled the crew who interviewed me. I was frustrated that their catchy name was also that of a prominent astronomy website.

Oh.

Oh no.

I'm not saying it's aliens.

I watch their previous exploration of Pine Bush, a polished production narrated by two prominent figures in the area. Wait. Am I going to be narrating?

Oh no.

My mother, ever supportive, says maybe this will tip the scales, that I will finally reach the acclaim I deserve. I am 43, and it is a little late to be a literary wunderkind.

I showed one of my students a New York Post video of the fair from years past. I see the corner of my booth and tell him to freeze it so I can see the pixelated tan of it, excited for this indecipherable coverage. He goes back a few frames to see me filming the parade. He finds my excitement embarrassing, as well he should. He watches another 45 seconds and there I am, my name on the screen, being interviewed.

"Quack, why didn't you say you was in this?" he demands.

"I have no recollection of this. I must have never watched this far." The real reason is that there is a one-minute version and a three-minute one made a year later. I was not aware of this. I did not end up in the one-minute version, so I did not think to look for another.

He does not find this answer satisfying. I am too amused to care.

Recently, I searched for my name on Google Books. This is not pure, empty vanity. I am quoted in books about chocolate, Marian visitation, and cryptids. Once a quote is in the air--or on hundreds of quote sides littering the internet--it barely belongs to the author. We pretend the author is dead and does not need to be consulted. I've quoted thousands in the epigraphs of these entries, and only one ever commented to ask why I did so. I am in no position to get precious about my own quotes. They've been used to sell bullet-related rings, pro-ana blogs, and porn. Books are preferable and lasting.

There are two new ones, one of which is a quote about juvenile detention heading a chapter in a textbook. I am startled. This is perhaps my most authoritative one. Then, I spy my name at the top of a page in a grammar workbook. I smirk, imagining the bored students who decide to search for my name and find me in videos for a UFO fair.

last watched: Adventure Time
reading: Luda