WHY DID YOU WRITE A BOOK?
He's a recent friend with whom I've enjoyed spending time occasionally. We attend church services together when we're both in town and usually have lunch afterward. I agreed to serve on a board he heads, and he decided to serve on a committee I co-chair.
He mentioned months ago that he'd like to read a book I published in the fall of last year. Last month, I gave him an autographed copy, which he seemed to appreciate. However, the four or five times I have seen him have felt a little off since then. He'd make the same comment that he had started my book but couldn't get past the story about my father. I kept telling him there was no pressure to read it and that he had to stop reading it if it was unpleasant. The book has challenging parts, especially the childhood stuff and maybe the political chapter for those who don't share my beliefs. Some features of the book are not for the faint of heart.
We went to lunch this past Sunday after church services. I could tell he had something on his mind right before he pronounced, "I'd like to have an honest discussion with you. I have some questions to ask about your book." I instantly replied, "I sensed some judgment from you about my book, so give it to me. I'm curious about your feedback."
His first questions were, "Why did you write the book? The world doesn't know you. Why would someone who doesn't know you read the book? How would anyone even find your book? How many books have you sold?" I wanted to give him honest answers to his questions, but I instinctively knew that he had already formulated his opinion, which wasn't flattering.
He missed the book's first pages, where I explained that I wanted my grandbabies to know about their grandmother. I may not live to see them as adults. I wished my grandparents had taken the time to write their life stories. It would have been a treasure to have it.
I also felt the need to speak out about the injustices in the world and the current political climate. I wanted my grandchildren to know that I am not accepting the country's current direction because I firmly believe that history will prove that what's going on now is a travesty.
And finally, I have a story to tell that might help others. They might also need to share their struggles in getting through this life. The problematic parts were cathartic. Other features of the book paid homage to the people I've met along the way.
After we parted, I became somewhat angry as I thought of his questions. When you have a passion for something, whether painting or taking pictures, engaging in athletic pursuits, or even writing books, you do it because you feel compelled to do it. It's that simple. I know I won't be famous or make money by writing, but it pleases me. I have something to say that's worthwhile. It's usually something weighing on my mind, or a memory emerges from the many places I've been and the people I've met.
He thinks writing memoirs for a blog or a book or even posting on Facebook is egotistical. He wondered why I didn't write a diary to leave my grandbabies. Maybe he's right. It doesn't change that I will continue to write in whatever format I wish. It's outrageous that I succumbed to explaining myself. I'm too old for that. He felt his words weren't offensive because he read the book to learn more about me. I'll take the crumb he left in his wake. Or maybe I won't.
I wish I had thick enough skin to withstand negative comments, but I don't. My overwhelming feeling is that if someone doesn't like what I write or doesn't like what I'm writing, nothing is forcing them to read it. That's okay with me. I won't even feel the wind stir as you pass me.
I recently received some negative comments about an article I submitted to the local newspapers for an organization. I offered to let the criticizing people write the articles themselves, taking time and effort. It isn't gratifying to take on that task, but our organization's activities needed to be covered in the newspapers. Journalists are almost nonexistent in rural Texas, so you have to write the articles yourself if you want your events in the press. I've since ceased doing the publicity. Do you think the critics took over the arduous task of taking pictures, writing and submitting articles? Of course not! It's easy to be a critic.
The question isn't "Why did I write a book, but why did you need to ask me that question? What about your own ego would compel you to ask such a thing?" Hindsight is always 20/20. Sigh..png)
He mentioned months ago that he'd like to read a book I published in the fall of last year. Last month, I gave him an autographed copy, which he seemed to appreciate. However, the four or five times I have seen him have felt a little off since then. He'd make the same comment that he had started my book but couldn't get past the story about my father. I kept telling him there was no pressure to read it and that he had to stop reading it if it was unpleasant. The book has challenging parts, especially the childhood stuff and maybe the political chapter for those who don't share my beliefs. Some features of the book are not for the faint of heart.
We went to lunch this past Sunday after church services. I could tell he had something on his mind right before he pronounced, "I'd like to have an honest discussion with you. I have some questions to ask about your book." I instantly replied, "I sensed some judgment from you about my book, so give it to me. I'm curious about your feedback."
His first questions were, "Why did you write the book? The world doesn't know you. Why would someone who doesn't know you read the book? How would anyone even find your book? How many books have you sold?" I wanted to give him honest answers to his questions, but I instinctively knew that he had already formulated his opinion, which wasn't flattering.
He missed the book's first pages, where I explained that I wanted my grandbabies to know about their grandmother. I may not live to see them as adults. I wished my grandparents had taken the time to write their life stories. It would have been a treasure to have it.
I also felt the need to speak out about the injustices in the world and the current political climate. I wanted my grandchildren to know that I am not accepting the country's current direction because I firmly believe that history will prove that what's going on now is a travesty.
And finally, I have a story to tell that might help others. They might also need to share their struggles in getting through this life. The problematic parts were cathartic. Other features of the book paid homage to the people I've met along the way.
After we parted, I became somewhat angry as I thought of his questions. When you have a passion for something, whether painting or taking pictures, engaging in athletic pursuits, or even writing books, you do it because you feel compelled to do it. It's that simple. I know I won't be famous or make money by writing, but it pleases me. I have something to say that's worthwhile. It's usually something weighing on my mind, or a memory emerges from the many places I've been and the people I've met.
He thinks writing memoirs for a blog or a book or even posting on Facebook is egotistical. He wondered why I didn't write a diary to leave my grandbabies. Maybe he's right. It doesn't change that I will continue to write in whatever format I wish. It's outrageous that I succumbed to explaining myself. I'm too old for that. He felt his words weren't offensive because he read the book to learn more about me. I'll take the crumb he left in his wake. Or maybe I won't.
I wish I had thick enough skin to withstand negative comments, but I don't. My overwhelming feeling is that if someone doesn't like what I write or doesn't like what I'm writing, nothing is forcing them to read it. That's okay with me. I won't even feel the wind stir as you pass me.
I recently received some negative comments about an article I submitted to the local newspapers for an organization. I offered to let the criticizing people write the articles themselves, taking time and effort. It isn't gratifying to take on that task, but our organization's activities needed to be covered in the newspapers. Journalists are almost nonexistent in rural Texas, so you have to write the articles yourself if you want your events in the press. I've since ceased doing the publicity. Do you think the critics took over the arduous task of taking pictures, writing and submitting articles? Of course not! It's easy to be a critic.
The question isn't "Why did I write a book, but why did you need to ask me that question? What about your own ego would compel you to ask such a thing?" Hindsight is always 20/20. Sigh.
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