I would like to first acknowledge Make-A-Wish and Rare Bird Books for making this wish a reality. I have been sharing stories ever since I could form sentences, beginning in the form of “What ifs” in the car seat of my mother’s Suburban, to see if possible, specific scenarios had the power to release me from my weekdays filled with coloring in the lines and learning my ABC’s. The first story I wrote was in second grade, called “Insac,” about a boy (named Insac) and a group of his friends given superpowers from God and the task to end Armageddon caused by the notorious “A Hundred Arms.” The villain A Hundred Arms was named this way because his victims, in interviews, would say that when he fights, his speed and stealth were so quick that it was as if he had a hundred arms.
My writing began to escalate in middle school, when I left my eighth grade English teacher the first chapter I wrote of a novel about a postapocalyptic United States. I remember bothering her every day after class, asking if she had read my new work of fiction. I was overwhelmed with anxiety, unnoticeably shaking as I approached her desk, dreaming of being a renowned author by the age of fifteen and yet afraid of the opinions of others. Then, about three weeks later, Mrs. Spanier strolled across the room toward my desk with the notebook and declared, in her noticeable Southern accent, “Austin, good job,” then dropped it on my desk. The noise echoed across the silent classroom. I was shocked and slightly embarrassed as all my peers glanced over with half curiosity and half wonder. This didn’t mean I could continue writing my story though, as my classmates began to ask if they could read it next. I never saw that notebook again, and one reason was because soon after I was admitted into the hospital.
Writing helped me survive cancer, as I journaled my experience with the chemotherapy and radiation, as well as the rollercoaster of emotions and survival instincts I had at the age of fourteen. I wrote about the dreams I had, about the anger I felt, and the acceptance I had with the idea of death’s possible invite into my young, mortal body. I also wrote about love, about God, and about the grand scheme of life. If it wasn’t for my escape into those few journals, I would have become a statistic in a medical journal, and what you hold in your hand would have never existed.
Writing was what helped me manage my PTSD, which, at fifteen, made me fear the idea of even having a license, shaken by the thought of being alone with my emotions, to sit in complete silence. I wrote down my pain in the form of a novel for a year and a half, escaping into a world I could control. During this time in my life, writing was my sanity; it kept my head above water as I tried to move on from the pains that almost seemed torturous. My PTSD is still severe, and I have come to the sobering conclusion that the end of treatment doesn’t mean the completion of recovery.
In conclusion, both Make-A-Wish and Rare Bird Books not only published my first novel, but have also made my lifelong dream—from my first word to my next breath—a reality. I have to admit that this entire process was emotional, from the moment I signed the contract, to the painful edits I had to write over the past summer, remembering how much of my own anger and despondency I stored inside and exploded onto these pages. They constantly portrayed a sense of patience, acceptance, and kindness that I will never forget. I would like to thank George Friedman, as well, for the inspiration for the futuristic word I create toward the end of my novel.
I would like to also acknowledge Joy Mona, the illustrator for my novel and my good friend for the past two years. Before I even knew if Rare Bird Books would allow her to be my illustrator, she openly volunteered to brainstorm some sketches, wanting to contribute to the cause with no charge for her beautiful work. We sat at the Barnes and Noble café as I began a forty-five minute recitation of my novel’s overly complicated plotline, like a lawyer trying to convince Joy why my green door concept was such a special theme in my novel. Then I sipped my coffee, content with what I said when Joy began to spurt out ideas on how to make the symbolism even deeper than my original idea, proving to me that writing and painting are not so far apart. Her recommendations are, in fact, what you see on the front cover (and the inside cover as a full view of the painting), including the light from the cracked door stretching across the painting, the illusion of distance away from Mary’s bedroom door, and the face of Mary looking back into the world of Mark, Aaron, and Kenny, one last time. Joy’s painting is named Last Glance.
Truthfully, it was an impossibility to find someone who could draw something anymore personal and understand my dense, serious themes more than Joy Mona, because we were both in the exclusive, yet unanimously disgusted club called “The Oncology Floor.”
Joy’s mother’s name was Maria Mona and suffered through stage four breast cancer. Just like me, cancer was a tune she had to face while growing up and, from the hell that is cancer, grew her gift, which no one can deny. Joy drew for her mother, looking for a grin on her face, or delight in her eyes, which is why having her artwork is such an honor. Cancer is a double-sided coin; there will always be two separate stories: the story from the diagnosed patient and from the family members who had to witness it. I cannot be more grateful to have both sides of the coin represented in my novel.
◆◆◆
This book was published as a wish experience through Make-A-Wish Arizona and Rare Bird Books. Author and wish kid, Austin Thacker, has generously agreed to offer a percentage of proceeds from the sale of the book to go toward granting future wishes in Arizona for children dealing with critical illnesses. For more information on Make-A-Wish Arizona, please visit www.arizona.wish.org.