A Word about My Life as a Myth
Good morning! I’ve been asked to say a few words about the history of My Life as a Myth published today by Prizm Books.
Rummage sales are the last vestiges of the old medieval markets. Believe me; poke around and you’re likely to come across things you’ve never seen before. Last year, I found something very unusual.
I was rooting through the offerings of a couple in their late-fifties, both aging flower children still wearing tie-dye shirts and dungarees. They certainly had a weird variety of things they’d accumulated over the years: old books, records (Lawrence Welk? Guy Lombardo?), bongs awkwardly disguised as flower vases, and assorted odds and ends. Really, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a mummy.
Sifting through the bric-a-bracs, I felt like an archeologist, pondering the culture that had brought these strange things together in one place. But what caught my eye was a cloth-covered book. My curiosity got the better of me, and I picked it up. It was fairly old, worn and coffee-stained, and filled with yellowed handwritten pages. (There were only a few dozen blank ones at the end.)
Steeply priced at ten cent, I wondered who would even consider buying such a thing. But you know how it is; once a reader, always a reader. My eyes involuntarily began deciphering the clumsy script.
What I discovered was the journal, a diary if you will, of a high school freshman named Nick Horton from way back in 1969. I was even more surprised that the kid had lived in my hometown and gone to the very high school I attended many years later. After a couple of pages, I knew I had to read the whole book, and if possible add it to my own growing collection of clutter for a future rummage sale.
I went to the man sitting next to the cash box. I was a bit afraid the book might be something that had made its way to the for sale pile by accident.
“This is marked ten cent,” I said, holding it up so he could see it.
“Okay then,” he said. “Five cent too much?”
“No, ten cent is fine,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure you intended to sell it.”
“Why not? It’s an interesting read if you’re into that kind of thing.”
“Then why are you selling it?”
“We found it when we moved in here. The Old Lady and I are getting on; we’re moving to a smaller place near the kids and won’t have the room.”
I paid him the ten cent.
When I got home I made a pot of tea and picked the book up again. Bittersweet memories of the longings and dreams of teenage life kept me reading. Because I’m from the same town as Nick, if from a somewhat later period, it was easy to get lost in his story. As I read, I remembered visiting The District with friends and the many ups and downs of high school life in Chadham, Virginia.
“Are you ever coming to bed?” my partner asked sometime after midnight.
“Just a bit longer,” I mumbled, entranced by the story of this kid who reminded me of so many people at that age, including myself.
My partner just shook his head, tousled my hair, and stumbled back off to bed – over the years he’s come to know me too well when it comes to books. I finished sometime before dawn and spent the next several days getting over the exhaustion of my marathon reading session. (Don’t believe what they tell you about people needing less sleep the older they get.)
Weeks passed and Nick’s journal continued to haunt me. I encouraged my partner to read it and often found him crying or laughing at this or that entry, just like I had. We began talking about Nick’s adventures and agreed that it was a story worth sharing with others. So after typing it out, I took it straight to Prizm Books.
With very few emendations, everything Nick wrote is what Prizm is publishing today in My Life as a Myth. If you ever saw the original, you’d be thankful that I’ve corrected the spelling! Other than that, only two or three entries were omitted, things that ultimately had little or nothing to do with the important events that happened that year.
Nick’s journal was written in a different time, both simpler and more complicated than the one we live in today. Some things were better then; many are better now. The major difference is that Nick’s world was much more innocent than own. What hasn’t changed is that delicate first flowering of young love, the awakening of passion, and the challenge of being yourself. (There are other things that haven’t changed, but you’ll read about those in the book.)
It is my hope that you will find My Life as a Myth as important as my partner and I do. For those of you Nick’s age, I hope you celebrate his triumphs and learn from his mistakes. In the end, whatever you think, I hope you come away from it stronger than you were and that you always remember, reputations seldom deliver on promises of happiness.
Huston Piner
Rummage sales are the last vestiges of the old medieval markets. Believe me; poke around and you’re likely to come across things you’ve never seen before. Last year, I found something very unusual.
I was rooting through the offerings of a couple in their late-fifties, both aging flower children still wearing tie-dye shirts and dungarees. They certainly had a weird variety of things they’d accumulated over the years: old books, records (Lawrence Welk? Guy Lombardo?), bongs awkwardly disguised as flower vases, and assorted odds and ends. Really, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a mummy.
Sifting through the bric-a-bracs, I felt like an archeologist, pondering the culture that had brought these strange things together in one place. But what caught my eye was a cloth-covered book. My curiosity got the better of me, and I picked it up. It was fairly old, worn and coffee-stained, and filled with yellowed handwritten pages. (There were only a few dozen blank ones at the end.)
Steeply priced at ten cent, I wondered who would even consider buying such a thing. But you know how it is; once a reader, always a reader. My eyes involuntarily began deciphering the clumsy script.
What I discovered was the journal, a diary if you will, of a high school freshman named Nick Horton from way back in 1969. I was even more surprised that the kid had lived in my hometown and gone to the very high school I attended many years later. After a couple of pages, I knew I had to read the whole book, and if possible add it to my own growing collection of clutter for a future rummage sale.
I went to the man sitting next to the cash box. I was a bit afraid the book might be something that had made its way to the for sale pile by accident.
“This is marked ten cent,” I said, holding it up so he could see it.
“Okay then,” he said. “Five cent too much?”
“No, ten cent is fine,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure you intended to sell it.”
“Why not? It’s an interesting read if you’re into that kind of thing.”
“Then why are you selling it?”
“We found it when we moved in here. The Old Lady and I are getting on; we’re moving to a smaller place near the kids and won’t have the room.”
I paid him the ten cent.
When I got home I made a pot of tea and picked the book up again. Bittersweet memories of the longings and dreams of teenage life kept me reading. Because I’m from the same town as Nick, if from a somewhat later period, it was easy to get lost in his story. As I read, I remembered visiting The District with friends and the many ups and downs of high school life in Chadham, Virginia.
“Are you ever coming to bed?” my partner asked sometime after midnight.
“Just a bit longer,” I mumbled, entranced by the story of this kid who reminded me of so many people at that age, including myself.
My partner just shook his head, tousled my hair, and stumbled back off to bed – over the years he’s come to know me too well when it comes to books. I finished sometime before dawn and spent the next several days getting over the exhaustion of my marathon reading session. (Don’t believe what they tell you about people needing less sleep the older they get.)
Weeks passed and Nick’s journal continued to haunt me. I encouraged my partner to read it and often found him crying or laughing at this or that entry, just like I had. We began talking about Nick’s adventures and agreed that it was a story worth sharing with others. So after typing it out, I took it straight to Prizm Books.
With very few emendations, everything Nick wrote is what Prizm is publishing today in My Life as a Myth. If you ever saw the original, you’d be thankful that I’ve corrected the spelling! Other than that, only two or three entries were omitted, things that ultimately had little or nothing to do with the important events that happened that year.
Nick’s journal was written in a different time, both simpler and more complicated than the one we live in today. Some things were better then; many are better now. The major difference is that Nick’s world was much more innocent than own. What hasn’t changed is that delicate first flowering of young love, the awakening of passion, and the challenge of being yourself. (There are other things that haven’t changed, but you’ll read about those in the book.)
It is my hope that you will find My Life as a Myth as important as my partner and I do. For those of you Nick’s age, I hope you celebrate his triumphs and learn from his mistakes. In the end, whatever you think, I hope you come away from it stronger than you were and that you always remember, reputations seldom deliver on promises of happiness.
Huston Piner
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