I am the Walrus...or perhaps just the Sea Monkey...

Happy New Year, dearest blog followers, all four of you!

There's a song, by the Beatle's I believe, that has a line in it "I am the Walrus" and it's so random and way out there, I have no idea of what it means. It is, however, catchy enough that people occassionally burst forth singing just that line of the song spontaneously. At least, in my world, they do.

I was up until 3AM typing up a press release to be posted on a free site, where individuals who don't know me, Pomba Gira or American Indians might randomly read it. I thought it wouldn't hurt to try, because I really want the fundraising aspect of this to be a success and go down in history as the author who's face launched a thousand dartboards.

This emergence of mine into authorship has reminded me of those kits you get as a kid, usually around the holidays as a gift from someone who doesn't know what you might like. The adult version is typically the Chia Pet, although I prefer giving to my adult friends the ecologically sound gift of the Poo Pet, handmade by the Amish and a rare find indeed. No, the child version of the random "and what am I supposed to do with this?!" gift is usually the crystals that grow in water, or the ever fascinating Sea Monkey kit.

For those of you deprived of such a treat as a youth, the Sea Monkey kit allows a child to put eggs into a formula solution and hatch Sea Monkeys, which you can stare at all day and still not understand fully how they came to be named that. It's absolutely fantastic that something so bizarre could be sold, and make a profit, presumably. It gives me hope for the sale of The Summer of Pomba Gira, which in no way comes close to the intrigue of the Sea Monkeys, but still, raises money for two good causes.

Yes, I realized that this authorship thing has made me feel as if I'm a Sea Monkey myself. I've suddenly hatched out of some solution and am wriggling my way about the tank of the internet. Whereas only last year, Oleander Main did not exist in the ethernet existence, suddenly I've got a website, blog and now a press release floating my name out there. Me and Pomba Gira, motley crew that we are. It's a surreal virtual existence, to be sure.

My family isn't really known for doing things like self-publishing a book or staying up until 3AM to post anything, much less a press release, on the internet. When I got a tattoo, I was reminded by my brother that our father would have advised against it. It goes along the lines that tattoos aren't a good thing: It makes it easier for the police to identify you later. Better to stay incognito.

So when I tell my family what I've done, publishing this novel and posting like mad all over the internet, they look at me and become just a wee bit nervous. Undaunted, I persist until they agree to buy a copy, which they do. I suspect they fear that one of the characters in it might resemble them. A few brave souls actually ask what it's about and blink, the Sea Monkey attributes of my development becoming apparent before their very eyes. They are accustomed to the randomness of my existence, having transformed as a fashionista, noble scholar, mother. They are aware that what is most consistent about me is my randomness. But in light of this novel, they begin to wonder where we took an evolutionary wrong turn to becoming Sea Monkeys.

My friends, also familiar with my avant garde transformations, take it in stride and actually encourage it. This is where it occurs, when your friends encourage you. "Be a Sea Monkey! Go for it! I always knew you could!" I am sure I could make Poo Pets too, and while not being Amish, I think there are better than even odds that I could do so stylishly and with passion. So when in doubt, terrified families of authors, blame the friends.

My friends even now are cheering me on. "You go girl! I'm so proud! Congratulations, because even if nobody understands your Sea Monkeyness, it's what makes you UNIQUE! We've known it was in you all along, now THE WHOLE WORLD can see!" As I swim in the internet brine, I can only think, do not blame my bizarre humor on my friends, the blame should rest squarely on my family, the Main's. They would never admit it, but it is in our genetic makeup, our DNA.

However, humor has it's utility. Today as we were at the store, we encountered a vitrol example of humanity without a trace of any, who elected to confront each shopper and accuse them of blocking her car. Little did she know she'd accused a Sea Monkey who'd write about it later.

My son was perplexed and we got to talking about random negativity and it's meaning. I speculated that many post-holiday people have great expectations for a miracle to occur during the holiday seasons. Their families would be pleasant, they'd get the gifts they'd want, their problems would be solved. If you're one of those, read my book, it might help. I explained that post-holiday, they realized their expectations of a miracle had not been met and they're surly and mean due to it. My son thought of several examples of this he'd seen this holiday, other children whining "it's just not fair!" or adults being more onery than usual.

I explained that it's not our place to sit in judgment of that, but chart a course for ourselves through the brine. We could easily fall prey to this ourselves, waiting for some miracle to happen on a specified day, one that might never come through. In fact, it's one of the themes of the book. I shared with him that it's our obligation in life to make our own miracles happen, and that it's the passivity of sitting around waiting for someone to come with a magic wand and fix our lives that leads to such disappointments. So I was glad that the vitrol creature had danced her stuff out for all to see, if nothing else as a reminder of a course I don't want to take.

In thinking on it, that was the whole point of my 3AM press release posting. No one is going to wave a magic wand and sell my book for me, and raise this money for these organizations in this unique way. So it's got to fall to me to try, and that's pretty good for a Sea Monkey. Sleep is highly over-rated anyway.