My Serendipity Story
When my first book (Hannah & the Spindle Whorl) was published (Ronsdale Press, 2010), I wanted to commemorate the occasion. But what? I was leaning toward a tattoo, but I had no idea what sort of design felt appropriate. A quill and ink bottle felt a little too cliché, as did all the other “bookish” ideas I came up with. So, I put the idea aside and figured that if I were meant to get one, eventually, inspiration would show up.
One Saturday afternoon, a week after my book was released, I found myself in my favourite used bookstore in Victoria, BC — Russell Books. This bookstore is magical — a two-story, fir-floored old building with piles of books stacked floor to ceiling. It has since moved to a shiny, modern location, but it was like something out of a Bookish Rom-Com movie back then.
I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but whenever I found myself in a bookstore, I always asked about “that book.” That book is one I’ve been searching for for decades. Bambi, by Austrian author Felix Salten, was written in 1923. I know what you’re thinking, but it isn’t the Walt Disney version that probably popped into your head. No. This book is a full-length novel written way before its time. It’s a story about love, family, ecology, and the ethics of hunting, and it’s the book that made me want to become a writer. I must have read it twenty times between twelve and fourteen.
Anyway, I always asked after it, as I lost my copy somewhere along the way, but no one had ever heard of it. So, when I asked the bookstore employee about it, I wasn’t expecting things to be any different this time. I was right; she hadn’t heard of it. I smiled. If the book were meant to show up, then one day, it would. But as I thanked her and turned away, another employee walked past, and she stopped him.
\
“David,” she said. “This woman is looking for a novel called Bambi: A Life in the Woods, written in 1923 by Felix Salten. Have you ever heard of it?”
David’s face drained of colour. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he held up his right hand. In it, was the book. Not only was it the right title, but it was the EXACT SAME edition I’d had as a kid.
“I don’t know why I’m holding this book,” he said, incredulous. “I just found it in a box in the staffroom, among some old gumboots. I don’t know why I picked it up.”
But I knew. Call me a new-age flake, but it seemed like an affirmation from the universe that I was on the right track.
Ten dollars later, the book was mine, and I knew exactly what my tattoo would be: a small
black and white etching-like fawn inspired by the delicate illustrations in the book.
That was fourteen years and eight books ago. I still get goosebumps every time I think about that day.
What do you think? Uncanny coincidence, or a sign from the Divine?
Comments