The audience chuckled and gave the author’s family a warm round of applause, forcing them to stand and wave bashfully.
“We were very saddened to hear of your wife’s passing earlier this year,” Mr. Quinn said. “As most of our audience knows, Mr. Bailey’s wife, Breanne Campbell-Bailey, was also an accomplished writer and served as a United States senator for twenty-four years until her retirement.”
“Would you believe we were middle school sweethearts?” Mr. Bailey said with a smile. “As far as I’m concerned, I was the first and only mistake she ever made.”
“How long were you married?” Mr. Quinn asked.
“Fifty-two years,” Mr. Bailey said. “She insisted on finishing her master’s degree before marriage and publishing her fifth book before starting a family.”
“I’m not surprised,” Mr. Quinn said. “The late senator was a major advocate for women’s rights.”
“Yes, but I must clarify, Bree was never late for anything,” the author said with a laugh. “She did absolutely everything on her own time, and her death was no exception. But in my family we don’t say died or passed away, we say returned to magic—it suits her much better. Before she returned to magic, my wife hid thousands of notes in our home for me to find after she was gone. Not a day goes by I don’t discover a Post-it reminding me to take my medicine or eat breakfast.”
“Magic indeed,” Mr. Quinn said. “You were both born and raised in Willow Crest, California. Is that correct?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Bailey said with a nod. “And what a different world it was. Paper came from trees, cars ran on gasoline, and caffeine was legal. It was practically the Dark Ages.”
“Can you remember the first person who inspired you to write?” the moderator asked.
“It was my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Peters,” the author said. “At first we didn’t see eye-to-eye; she thought her classroom was a place for education, I thought it was a great place for naps. A year later she became principal of the middle school and read some short stories I had written for my English class. Mrs. Peters saw potential in my writing and planted the seeds in my head. I’ll always be so grateful to her. I dedicated one of my books to her—but I can’t recall which one.”
“It’s Fairytaletopia 4: The Literary Journey!” shouted an excited little girl in the back row.
“Oh yes, that’s the one,” Mr. Bailey said, and scratched his head. “You’ll have to be patient with me; my memory has been on vacation since my early seventies. These days I’ll pick up a book and read the whole thing without realizing I wrote it.”
“Speaking of which, let’s talk about your remarkable writing career,” Mr. Quinn said. “As I said before, you’ve published more than a hundred books over the course of five decades. Among those are the Starboardia sagas, the Adventures of Blimp Boy mysteries, the Galaxy Queen chronicles, the Ziblings graphic novels, and most notably, the Fairytaletopia series.”
The crowd cheered the loudest at the mention of Mr. Bailey’s fantasy series, Fairytaletopia. The author’s six-book franchise was the most successful and acclaimed publication of his career. The series had been translated into fifty languages, was sold in over a hundred countries, and had helped improve children’s literacy around the world. The Fairytaletopia books had also been adapted into several major motion pictures, a dozen television shows, and countless items of tacky merchandise.
“Although the majority of your work has been bestsellers and critical hits, you’re most known for writing Fairytaletopia,” Mr. Quinn said. “What is the special ingredient that makes that series so beloved?”
“That’s an easy answer. It was written by a child,” Mr. Bailey confessed. “Not many people know this, but I finished the first draft of Fairytaletopia: The Wishing Charm when I was about thirteen years old. I was very embarrassed about writing, so I kept it a secret; I didn’t even show it to my family. Later, in my twenties, after a few mild literary successes, I came across a dusty old manuscript in my mother’s attic. I brushed it off, fixed some typos, and had it published. Had I known what a hit it would be I would have pursued it much sooner.”
“How interesting,” Mr. Quinn said. “So you’re saying the series is successful with children because it was conceived by one.”
“Precisely,” Mr. Bailey said. “Children will always be drawn to stories written in their own language. And as children’s authors, it’s our job never to lose touch with that language.”
“You’ve had plenty of opportunities to write for adults, but you’ve always stayed in the realm of middle grade. Why do you enjoy writing for children?”
“I suppose I just like children more than I like adults,” the author said with a shameless shrug. “No matter how much the world evolves, the children of the world will never change. Every child is born with the same need for love, respect, and understanding. They’re unified by the same fears, compassion, and convictions. They’re tormented by an endless curiosity, a thirst for knowledge, and a desire for adventure. The greatest tragedy in life is how soon children get robbed of these qualities. We could accomplish great things if we held on to such a fresh point of view. Think about how wonderful this world could be if we all saw it through the eyes of a child.”
“What would your advice be for aspiring authors?” Mr. Quinn asked.
It was a very important question to the author, and he went silent for a moment while he thought of a worthy answer.
“Always let the world inspire and influence you, but never let it discourage you. In fact, the more the world discourages you, the more it needs you. As writers we have the profound privilege and responsibility to create a new world when the current one takes a turn for the worse. Storytellers are more than just entertainers; we’re the shepherds of ideology, the street pavers of progress, and the scientists of the soul. If it weren’t for people like us, who imagine a better world and are brave enough to question and stand up to the authorities that suppress them… well, we’d still be living in the Dark Ages I was born into.”
It became so quiet the crowd could hear the ticking of a clock. At first the author was afraid he had said something to upset the audience, but once they’d had a few seconds to process his words, the event space erupted into another thunderous round of applause.
“I’m afraid to follow that answer with another question, so why don’t we open the questions to our audience members?” Mr. Quinn proposed.
Nearly all the hands in the room shot up at once. Mr. Bailey chuckled at the sight, tickled by how many people wanted to ask a question of an old geezer like him.
“Let’s start with the woman in the brown shirt,” Mr. Quinn said.