It takes a village to write a novel

Today I realized that there is no choice – I have to finish my book. Otherwise I’ll be letting countless people down. Friends and family who believe in me, despite the odds. People who take for granted there will be a book. I have to finish, if for no other reason than to live up to their expectations. There really is no other option.

It’s amazing to me to discover how many people in my life have a stronger belief in my abilities than I do. In the solitary world of the writer, I often forget that. And then an old friend steps in to remind me that my writing is not just mine alone – there are many others vested in my success.

Jenny Stott at King Family Vineyard — Jenny, one of the peeps in my village

So, Jenny, as much as it might embarrass you to be singled you out, thank you. For reminding me that I’m not alone in this crazy dream, no matter how alone it feels. For reminding me yet again how blessed I am to have so many wonderful friends, and to have such a wonderful support system. For making me want to succeed.

I don’t care how successful a writer is. We all need to have a support system. A support system with people out there waiting anxiously for our masterpieces. A support system full of people who truly care whether we make it or not, who truly care about our work.

If you are a writer but don’t feel supported in your work, you really should rethink your relationships. Because if you are a writer, you need to feel safe and loved and believed in. Period. There are too many rejections on a daily basis to do it alone. So hold tight to those people who support you in your dreams. And dump the ones who don’t.

Maybe that sounds harsh to you. But what you are doing is important. Trust it. Believe in it. And when someone else believes in you, cherish that, and honor it. There is no greater gift.

Where are you at home?

Yesterday in my book club one of the members mentioned that we read a lot of books about home: going home, finding a home, displacement from home. And it’s true. But then, much of literature is concerned with the idea of home.

Which made me think about what home means to me. It’s been a while since I’ve been still long enough to have what most people think of as a home in the traditional sense. One day I’ll do the whole permanent address thing again, but for now, I’m content to wander.

When I travel, I say almost everywhere I go, “I could live here.” I’ve said it about Ireland and Florence and Key West and Montreal and dozens of other places, and I really mean it, every time I say it. I probably could live in any of those places and be completely happy. (In the summer,at least.)

Another room with a view — My latest view

So what does home mean to me? Here’s my short list:

1) Peace. I’m not a city dweller, am not interested in the hustle and excitement and noise of a metropolis. I’m a small town girl. I need quiet time to read and write and daydream.

2) Nature. I need trees around, and green living things, and birds, and spaces not covered with concrete.

3) Water. The ocean is preferable, but a lake or river will do.

4) Books. I am lost without a stack of books beside my bed.

Otherwise, everything that makes a place home I carry with me: my upbringing and my values, my dreams and my passions, and the love of my family and friends, no matter how far I am from them. Wherever I am is home, as long as I remember who I am and where I come from and where I still want to go.

What means home to you?

I Love Mail

Maybe the hardest thing about this nomadic life I’ve been living for the past year is the mailing address issue. No matter how promptly I put in forwarding orders with the post office, I worry that I’ll miss mail. I have nightmares about important letters bouncing from Virginia to NH to SC and back to Virginia and never finding me.

Some people might not care. I do. Mail is a big deal to me. I love mail, love the anticipation of checking the box every day, love the promise that every mail day brings. Will I get a letter, that most anachronistic of pleasures? Will I have an acceptance from Tin House waiting for me when I look inside? Will a new book arrive? A gift?

My relatives have always been wonderful letter writers. My great-grandfather Bob was particularly prolific in his correspondence with me. We wrote back and forth for years, and I’ve kept many of those letters, the last written just a few weeks before his death at 99 years old. I pull them out of my box of treasures every now and then and reread them, remembering his wry sense of humor and his stubborn determination to stay independent as long as possible.

My mother still writes lovely personal notes to everyone she knows. She doesn’t own a computer, doesn’t email or text. She shows people how much she cares by carefully choosing cards and taking the time to cover them with loving thoughts in her elegant handwriting.

I remember the thrill I’d get as a child when a letter would come from one of my aunts. My mother has three sisters, and they all made me feel grown-up and special when they wrote. It makes me sad that kids don’t often get letters like that anymore. So I’ve decided that once a week I’ll write a child or an elderly person a note, just to let someone know he or she is too special for a mere email. I do worry, though, that my efforts may be wasted when people receive letters from me they can’t decipher. After years of typing, my handwriting, which was never very good, has deteriorated to a blur of lines and scribbles that look like something a monkey might do if he got hold of a pen. It’s gonna take a great deal of effort to make those notes legible.

And of course I’ll keep sending out submissions to those journals that still want submissions sent via the US Postal Service. Then I’ll watch the mailbox every day hoping that I put the right address on my self-addressed envelope so that the acceptance letter can find me.