Pessimistic writer-life books and blogs are stalking me lately. A friend gave me The Accidental Bestseller by Wendy Wax, a book about four friends at different stages in their romance writing careers. Go ahead, romance writers, read it. I dare you. Nothing against the book. It is well-written, engrossing and strikes many familiar chords. But it isn’t cheerful, at least not yet. Another pal posted this link on a writers loop You Don’t Want To Be A Writer. I pulled into a Barnes and Noble when my car began to overheat because I thought B&N would be a nifty place to wait for a tow truck. I started reading Teresa Medeiros’ Goodnight, Tweetheart. It’s about a writer whose career feels like it is… spiraling downward. I was really getting into it, too.
This is not good. I’m about to hop on the publishing carousel. I’m excited! I’m not expecting a brass ring, but I am hopeful. I have had a book in my hand, backpack or purse ever since I learned to read. I have always admired the people who created imaginary worlds for me to visit. I have “keeper” books with characters that are truly real to me. I’m thrilled that my daughter just read The Black Stallion and a thirty-three year old copy of Julie Edwards’ Mandy. I’m grateful to the authors who enriched my childhood, made my teen years bearable and my adulthood fun and interesting. I’m going to be one of those people to someone. I hope. Maybe. And my children need those people too.
So stop it already, okay? Have a little publishing shake-down, a little backlash, a little faith, a freak-out, a pity-party – whatever. Get used to e-readers. Buy books. And writers – write! The world needs books.