Dear [Loved One]: I am a writer
My name is not Shakespeare, Poe, Bronte, or Rowling, but I am
a writer just the same.
I may not be a doctor, lawyer, or executive chief, but my
writing – to me – is just as critical. Can you indulge me, just a few moments?
You read articles in People,
Sports Illustrated, Time, or Cosmo about the problems with
celebrities and their children, the latest athlete arrested for drugs or
spousal abuse, the trouble on Wall Street, or how to apply your make-up for a
night on the town. However, when I try to talk to you about the article in Writer’s Digest about e-book vs. print
book or how to improve my web presence, you give me the hand wave and say, “Who
cares?”
You’ll spend a half hour with your nose in a catalog for new
clothes, a new computer, or new hunting gear. I’ll spend a little time trying
to find that just-right creative writing class or the perfect book for getting
my novel to market, and you tell me I’m wasting my time.
I supported you when you wanted to start a small business,
when you wanted to get out of a small business, when you wanted to start a new
job, or retire. When I have a great idea for a new book or realize the book I’m
writing must be shelved, you say, “Oh well” without lifting your head.
I’ve spent hours in the car with you to get to the ball
game, watch the ball game, and get home from the ball game. I’ve watched,
waved, and smiled as you pull out of the driveway on your way to that week-long
hunting or fishing trip or when you were going for a girls’ weekend at the spa.
But when I plan a day-long workshop at the local university or a weekend
conference in Vegas or Seattle, you ask me, “What about the kids?” “What about
dinner?”
I’ve sympathized over your aching joints or shin splints,
your aching back, and your stress-related headaches. But when I describe my
tired, bloodshot eyes or I’m afraid I might have carpal tunnel, you remind me
you told me I shouldn’t spend so much
fruitless time at the computer.
I’ve observed as you spend hours watching L&O marathons,
night after night of Dancing With The Stars or American Idol or weekend
sporting events. But if I ask for one hour of uninterrupted time to hash out a
new outline or finish my edit, you complain.
You go online and spend hours sifting through junk email,
silly chain mail, and funny pictures. You play farm games, card games, or
puzzle through Sudoku. I spend online time with writers, agents, publishers,
editors; I learn about writing, how to query an agent, or how to land a
publisher. And you wonder why I don’t do something productive.
You regale me with stories of the quirky character at the
grocery store, the fabric store, or the paint guy at Home Depot. But if I try
to describe one of my book characters, one of my villains, or my protagonist’s
triumph, your eyes glaze over.
I agreed when you wanted to upgrade to a $1,000, 54-inch TV,
when you wanted another new car or yet another pair of designer leather boots.
Yet you scoff when I want to spend $500 on a weekend writers’ conference or a
professionally-designed website.
You spend hours tending your garden, washing and waxing your
F-150 baby in the driveway, or creating the perfect lasagna. But you tell me
I’m wasting time when I struggle over the perfect paragraph, the perfect
opening line, the perfect surprise twist.
I celebrate with you when your second cousin in Alaska has
her first baby, your aunt and uncle buy a retirement condo in Florida, or your
friend in Arizona graduates from ASU. The birth of my novel is barely a blip on
your radar.
I have coddled you through the flu, knee surgery, and that
pesky rash. I have consoled when you were depressed and commiserated with you
over what the boss had the nerve to do on any given day. Yet when I try to tell
you how much mind-bending, sleep-losing trouble I’m having with my final
chapter, you suggest I just give it up.
You will read a book if it’s on the NYT Best Sellers list (by
someone you don’t know and have no hope to ever meet), a tell-all book by a
politician you didn’t vote for, or a memoir by your favorite sports figure. Why
won’t you open my manuscript?
You read numerous blogs every week about cupcake-decorating,
care and feeding of a Labrador, how to paint a War Hammer figurine, or how to
grow the perfect rose bush. Why won’t you sign up for my blog?
I hope we never have to talk about the death of my dream.
I’m afraid you won’t listen.
***
Karen was raised
by a mother who wanted to be an English teacher and who worked for
Merriam-Webster as a proofreader and an aunt who could complete the Sunday New
York Times crossword puzzle in a day. Their favorite expression was, “Look it
up!” Karen reads punctuation and grammar manuals for fun. Her favorite book is
the dictionary.
