Love thy list
I found out this week, by chance, that my long-time veterinarian sold his practice and is moving out of town next week. Without even so much as a goodbye form letter, he is simply closing up shop and disappearing into the Oregon fog. Having a business of my own that is built on good relationships, this news astounded me. I imagined pets and their people all over Portland getting that "He's just not that into you" slap in the face when they called to see their trusted doctor and were told that he has moved on without bothering to mention it.
I promise you: there is a point to all of this. And though it is not as direct a link as the right turn signal blinking an arrow to the right (which I've been explaining and enacting for my son all week), this veterinary saga does somehow bring me to my latest technology saga: my database. I've been self employed for 14 years, and in all that time, I have been faithfully entering in the contact info of my friends, family, clients, colleagues, literary community members, media lists, and folks who specifically sign up to hear from me about certain topics. I started sending holiday cards to all 500, then as the list grew over time, valentines to all 1,000. And, of course, a handwritten note whenever possible, because that is my favorite way to connect.
One summer during my college years (I diverge again, with intention), I was temping as a receptionist for an organization that provided in-home nurse aides. I had two people on hold: an elder person with incontinence issues wanting to talke to a nurse, and a contractor renovating the home of one of the employees in the office. Somehow, those two "hold" lines bled together behind the scenes and the contractor ended up fielding the incontinence call much to his dismay. I discovered this week that something like this has happened to my database. A nice, streamlined list of 2,000 or so names somehow started leaping their fences and tidy fields and mingling with information from other entries, replicating whatever struck their fancy, to the tune of 16,000 spontaneously generated and mangled records. A database cancer of sorts.
I've spent hours and hours cleaning up the mess, and I'm down to about 9,600 files now. It's been frustrating, of course. But, as with all mistakes and mishaps, a very interesting gift has surfaced: a journey of gratitude through my past. As I've had to hand-sort thousands of names and parse the meaningful from the nonsense, I've had a rare opportunity to savor people from my past — people I like very much but haven't thought of for years. Just seeing how many humans have touched me enough for me to want to write down their name and contact info made me feel connected in ways that I don't often experience as I sit alone in my house at my desk with cats in my lap and an occasional conference call.
And then, something even stranger than database records mating started happening. A good friend/colleague from three cities ago called from his latest city to offer me a job. Another three friends/colleagues who I hadn't seen or spoken to in eight years or so sent letters of introduction to potential new clients. I was invited to read as part of a poetry series. One of my best friends from college–whom I last spoke to in 1996–called. Work was pouring in, friends were showing up to walk my dogs, feed me, play with my son. In short, just engaging with my list and appreciating my list literally seemed to make me magnetic to what I was wanting and needing most.
Which brings me back to my shock and confusion about the veterinarian. He has this incredible list of people who depend on him, who adore him, and he didn't complete the circuit to say goodbye, to say thank you, to say, I'm sorry your dog will die of that disease but I do hope the medication keeps him comfortable. He didn't love his list. And I'd imagine that is largely costing him a foundation he spent many years building.
Which is why I believe every writer needs to honor, cherish and tend his or her list–of friends, colleagues, teachers, publishers, family, media, readers/audience, students, etc. The writing life is solitary in some ways, but like any endeavor that involves other people — readers, audiences, publishers, editors — a significant source of potential happiness or unhappiness lies in the relationships you cultivate. Keep in touch with these people. Make it clear that you value their interest, friendship, expertise, or whatever it is that is true for you. But even more important than telling them what you appreciate, tell yourself what you appreciate about the community you are cultivating as you hold those names and faces in your mind.
When you love your list, it will love you back. I don't know why, but that's just how it seems to work.
