For All the Writers . . .
I realized something this week – something that moved me to write a blog post on a Sunday afternoon when I’d rather be watching baking videos or losing myself in a fantasy novel. I had the privilege of chatting online with the author of one of my favorite indie books. Following that, another indie author reached out to me, asking if I’d be interested in reading her novel. I also spoke briefly with a father of two small children on Bluesky, desperately trying to find time to keep his literary dreams alive. After all of that, I started reading a book written by someone close to me, or rather, someone who used to be close to me. We’ll call him Holden. It was a good week, surrounded by other writers, all pursuing the same goals as me.
I assume that I will meet a lot of brilliant writers in my lifetime. There are a lot of brilliant writers out there. Holden, that friend I just mentioned, is one of those brilliant writers. Infuriating as it is, I’ve learned to accept that some people emerge from the womb, radiating poetry, while others stumble through their first novel thinking it's a good idea to make their devastated ingenue laugh like an anime villain (I beg you, don’t ask). Though Holden is, indeed, an amazing writer, we have a fundamental disagreement, not about writing, but about writers. You see, Holden, contrarian that he is, often goes on about how he hates writers despite being one. Perhaps he thinks they're all phonies. Whatever his reasoning, I personally don’t understand the sentiment, because I love writers. And the more writers I talk to, the more I grow to love them.
Why? Writers are sensitive, mercurial, solitary creatures. They’re emotional things, who feel so deeply and imagine so vividly that they can paint pictures with words alone. Writers can sit in isolation for hours, lost in the corners of their minds, manufacturing lifetime after lifetime. What others might call dissociation, writers call creation, staring at a white page to build something out of nothing. It leaves them fragile and raw, tempting them to hide their creations, keeping them safe from criticism and rejection. But some writers are so passionate about their stories, that they dare to put their work ‘out there’. Despite being sensitive as a snail's eyes, they’re willing to get poked. Rejection after rejection, writers endure. They get told to thicken their skin, knowing full well that doing so would be creative suicide, leaving the heart too guarded to write anything truly meaningful. Therefore, refusing to hide, and refusing to toughen up, writers accept the pain of rejection, letting it singe their delicate souls with every, ‘Thank you. This isn’t for me’.
If you’re a writer, I hope you know that I think you’re the boldest and bravest type of artist, and those are not trivial words. Not to me. I know what it's like to sacrifice your mind as well as your time to create something that matters. You’re willing to accept the pain that will inevitably come with a soul bared so completely, and that is something I can’t help but admire. So, Holden, if you ever read this, reconsider your disdain for your people. We’re not as insufferable as you think.
And if you’re a reader, go easy on writers. Even if you don’t like their books. Even if you don’t like their prose. Go easy on them. Writing is really just the process of ripping your heart from your chest and smearing it across the paper. It's hard to do, but writers want to make something real. Something meaningful. Something that bleeds. Believe me, the book smell you love so much is actually just iron. It’s simply disguised as paper and glue by the time it gets to you.