A love story
As I barrel toward The End on book number three, I’m starting to think of who I want to include in the acknowledgements. There are so many people to thank, so many folks who have contributed big and small to this manuscript, so many friends who haven’t read a word yet still never fail to encourage me along the way. “Thank you” doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
But by far, my biggest and most vocal group of cheerleaders has been other authors. Writing a book is a solitary venture, a six-to-twelve-month process in which we close ourselves off from the world and pound out a story. I know there are writers who do this in public, in coffee shops or restaurants, but I’m not one of them. I like an empty house and a do-not-disturb sign on the door.
And I’ve found that the only other people who get it, who really understand what it’s like to be me when I’m mired down deep in a story, are other authors. They understand the self-doubt and frustration that comes with each book. They know better than anyone else the terror when you send it out to your readers, and they’ll encourage you to do it anyway. And when your book baby is born, when it hits the shelves and the world wide web, they are first in line to help celebrate the big day.
That’s been one of the most pleasant surprises in this journey, actually, how supportive authors are of other authors. Yes, there’s jealousy and pettiness. Yes, it’s impossible not to compare books and careers and Amazon rankings. But as a whole, authors are some of the nicest, most generous people I know, and I’m blessed to have them as colleagues.