I’m Glad I’m Not a Professional Writer, and Other Thoughts of Gratitude

“If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, 'thank you,' that would suffice.”
― Meister Eckhart

I like reading. I like losing myself in stories and learning new things. I like original ideas and diverse perspectives. I love finding out how things work, where places are, and how what is came to be. I’m a reader, and a very dedicated one. I can’t pass a bookshelf without browsing titles. I’ve spent many happy hours in libraries, bookstores, and at yard sales rummaging through boxes of books. In recent years, I’ve shifted my browsing and reading to digital versions, but I still read just as much. I read fiction, nonfiction, poetry, essays, and academic papers. I read Wikipedia Talk Pages, cited references, warranty restrictions clauses and software EULAs.

When I’m not reading other people’s work or mentally adapting them to suit my fancy, I’m telling stories to myself. I find fiction helpful when trying to understand a present reality. Trying ideas on as another person, or a myriad cast of characters, helps me think things through. If there is a moral dilemma, a controversy, or some doubt about the ethics of an action, the mused settings in my mind and the imagined people that arise from them play out scenarios in parallel universes of possibilities.

I do a lot of writing in my head. I don’t do much with my fingers. The mind is faster and can take shortcuts. There are long-standing symbols that don’t need explanation. And there are enough people out there in the real world who can express thoughts better than I can.

I did write – with my fingers – for a few years. I was running out of psychic space for all the ideas and people in my head at a time when I couldn’t find what I wanted to read. It seemed to me then that books that I was picking up were too glib and fast about drawing lines and reaching conclusions. Instead of expanding my world, the books I found implied a narrowing down. Everything seemed to be a straight shot, black or white, yes or no, good or bad. Even flawed protagonists or antagonists with some redeeming qualities began to seem formula-derived after a while. Likely they weren’t really; it was probably the mood I was in. Or it could well have been the result of living in a country at war, both in the usual sense and a cultural one.

So, I wrote stories where simple categories weren’t easy and everything was connected to something else. There were consequences large and small, for good and for ill. But I never thought of myself as a writer. I would entertain the idea occasionally, but would ultimately lay it aside. Authors had to take risks I wasn’t willing to take. They had to do book tours, read their work aloud, do interviews and talk about what lay behind their words. They had to exude confidence to cover their natural angst of baring bits of their hearts and souls for the world. Even the thought of that makes me shiver. I was a hobbyist, an amateur. I wrote because I wanted to. I did it for the love of it. There were no deadlines, no pressures, and no performance anxieties. I was lucky enough to have a real job that I liked, so I didn’t have to write to earn a living. I don’t have the talent or the stamina, but somehow, I still ended up with the angst.

So why did I publish at all? Why do I have an author page? I don’t know. I guess if writing is a form of communication, it means that an interaction should take place somehow. There’s something there that needs to flow in more than one direction. An amateur writer still needs the occasional connection and I wondered if there was another me out there to connect with.

In most ways, I’m very glad that I did. It helps me empathize more with those who’ve given me so many interesting worlds and happy hours. It’s made me a more appreciative reader. I’ve met many writers since joining Goodreads a few months ago and despite a variety of backgrounds and personalities, they are all helpful, encouraging, intriguing, and generous. Although I still ultimately choose what to read by browsing through samples and descriptions of books, I must confess that I find those samples by reading discussions posts and blogs. If I see writers being helpful or sympathetic to others, I’ll go to their pages and read more about them. If they’re actively reading other books and discussing ideas in their blogs and not simply promoting their own work, I’ll sample their books. And if I like them, I buy them, whether they’re traditionally or independently published. I realize that this might be a little unfair: I may well have liked books by authors who are horrors as human beings, but my recently read and to-be-read lists are full of great books by great people.

I try not to get involved in fierce forum discussions about trad vs self-publishing, or raising the bar of quality, or who or when to review, or how ratings should go. There are many valid points. But I’m so happy with this new world of reading and write-sharing that I tense a little at the thought of some kind of review and rating system to shield me as a reader from being able to make my own decisions. I don’t want anyone to narrow my options for me. Reviews are nice, and so are ratings, but ultimately I depend on my inclination and how well a writer connects with me in the excerpt. I do care about grammar and plot construction and all of those things that a well-crafted work of art has. But I want to be able to decide for myself who fits it. (That being said, I was delighted to receive the SROP Silver Rodent Award as a writer and am determined to win a gold in newer revisions!)

You might be wondering what the point of this ramble is. So here it is: it’s gratitude. To all of you professional writers out there: thank you, thank you, thank you. You might feel sometimes that you ought to just give up, but please don’t. As long as you have a story that needs telling, tell it. Keep improving it, keep looking for where its voice is best heard, and let it speak. There are readers all over the world and if you made a difference in the heart of one of them, wouldn’t it be enough? (Ok, maybe you need to pay rent and buy groceries, so money would help too. But another job would do that with less risk, right?)

For all of you who help writers and readers find each other, thank you too. For those who put aside sheer enjoyment in a story to better notice grammatical flaws, for those with courage and compassion to tell a writer how the writing might be better even if it hurts a little right now, for formatters and book sellers, for blog writers and reviewers, for moderators and support staff, and for all who make sure readers get the widest possible choices of books, thank you. For publishers with vision and heart above all else, whether traditional or independent, thank you for taking the financial risks in a very uncertain time. For cover designers and illustrators, who must take multiple ideas and thousands of words and distill them into an image that both writer and reader could connect with, thank you.

And in particular, a very heartfelt thank you to Kat of Aeternum Designs. When I approached her for the possibility of a professional cover, I really didn’t know what I wanted or why. As I confessed to equally supportive GR friends in our Cyber Hearth group, I felt like a fraud. Wouldn’t a professional cover mislead a possible reader into thinking that I was a professional writer? But after encouragement from all and my own admonition to myself to move away from labeling, Kat worked very gently with me and my angst. Her questions helped me see the cover as a symbol in the mythic sense of what the story said, what its mood was, and what was most important in its message. She reworked numerous design drafts to change colors, tones, and feelings evoked, without charging me extra. Whenever she sensed that I was settling for a proposed design rather than absolutely loving it, she kept on, finding what the hesitation was and coming up with a new way to address it. I think she must have lost money on me with all the time spent, but she was wonderful and I would suggest her to anyone looking for a cover. (Thank you again, Kat, and I’m almost ready with the new revision on Lulu. I think Smashwords has it already.)

And finally, to all those angels among my fellow readers (whether you write as well or not), those of you who spend hard-earned money to give a voice to those who feel they must speak or burst, you are the heroes and heroines of this new age. We truly have a voice now and we are singing out, loud and clear. We do it through our recommendations, our encouragement, our buying, our sharing, our book clubs, our discussion topics, and our overall passion. The world of writing belongs to us. Whether we read as well as write, or read exclusively (and then read some more), this is our time. Our only real obligation, besides being open and fair and willing to stretch our minds for the imagined reality of another, is to re-give the gift of reading that was given to us. Whether we teach, tutor, donate, volunteer – or do other work in schools, libraries, literacy programs, or education funds – this ability to read, of having infinite open doors, is something every human should have as a birthright. And if we’ve been given it, we need to do what we can, even the smallest bit, to pass it on. And for writers, this goes doubly so.

Today is Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday. Some call it Pancake Tuesday. The more spiritually inclined might refer to it as Shrove Tuesday. It’s meant as a last bit of exuberant carefree self-indulgence before the beginning of Lent, a time of reflection, contemplation, and challenge for many throughout the world. No matter what I might happen to feel about religion at this time of year, I try to observe Lent in some way. I let the jubilation of Fat Tuesday fold into the spare solemnity of Ash Wednesday. No one is born immune to suffering and the physical act of smearing ashes across one’s face, an act of mourning and regret thousands of years old (“Remember you came from dust and to dust you’ll return”), is a good reminder to pay attention to what’s important.

It’s a time to acknowledge what distracts us from what’s crucial and to put those aside for a while. For readers, writers, and every combination of the two, it can be a time to find out what life is at its essence and attend to it, like Christ in the desert or Buddha under the Bo tree. To think deeply, and to gently put aside what can wait, is a gift in itself. And so I will close with the poet T. S. Eliot for a summation of how I will try to respond to life right now, whether to publish more broadly, write more concisely, listen more compassionately, read more attentively, or simply to catch up on all those reviews that I want to write but haven’t managed to do yet. Today I’ll be carefree and indulgent and tomorrow, and for the weeks following, my mantra will be:

“Teach us to care and not to care. Teach us to sit still.”