Once upon a time, there was this thing called “Golden feather”, which was the highest annual award Croatian Journalists’ Association would give out.
I have two of those and neither one belongs to me.
My father won it in 1975, just three years after I was born, and my mother followed the suit in 1983, making me possibly the only person to have influenced both his parents to such journalistic heights.
They have both died since, and so did the tradition of golden feathers named Koprivica, as I sure as hell ain’t getting one. For one, they changed the name of it in 1993. And for two to billion, I produce nary a scribble compared to the life-long dedication to the art of writing my parents and their likes embodied.
I never published a thing while they were alive, and in doing so now, I like the idea of somehow passing the feather to the next generation, if you will. But I am also realistic about how my feather compares to a gold, a silver or a bronze one.
Hence, the wooden feather.