Words to be Read

Last night we went to a book release event for a friend for her first published novel. Not the first (or last) novel she’s written, but the first published after decades of writing, because talent and awards and effort are not always enough. Sometimes it takes time and luck and just a confluence of events for real writers to get published by a real publisher. It’s always been that way, but more so of course since the advent of the online world, where anyone can put up anything at any time. 

There are less filters now to differentiate the good from the not so good, and less incentive for publishers to invest money into new or untested writers with little chance of recouping their investment in a world where everyone’s aunt can post a rant online that you can read for free.

I’m a case study in that of course. 😉

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. The more chances and outlets for the free expression of ideas, the better. But it does make it harder for the real writer, the traditional writer, to separate themselves from the crowd, from the aunts and neighbors who all have something to say, and to prove that they’re worth the investment (both financially and temporally) required from the reader.

What I really want to talk about, however, is something that she said at her talk, lovingly curated and moderated by a former student. At the very end of the Q & A, the author said something that I’ll paraphrase thusly:

“I want people to read my characters. I want people to come to know the characters that have been given life in my writing. If I never received any monetary compensation at all for writing I’d still view it as a success and still continue doing so if only so my characters find life and are known by others. I’m proud of them, and I love when they get to live and be experienced by people other than myself. “

Again, this is a crude paraphrase of words spoken, off the cuff, by one to who language purity is an overarching goal of her communication. But you get the idea.

And, of course, here comes the Adrianna link: I totally understand this and is the driving force about what I write about Adri. I’m sure many if not most view what I’m doing here as a sort of self-therapy, where writing about her helps me deal with the profound grief I’m experiencing about her loss, and of course that’s true, that’s part of it.

But I could achieve that by writing all that I’ve written in a private diary, right? But I don’t. I post it all here for everyone to see. And the reason I do so is exactly for the reason that this particular writer, at least, writes in the first place.

I want people to know Adrianna. I want her life and experiences, be they good, bad, or indifferent, to be known. I want her life to touch others as it has touched mine, and I want this for several reasons. 

There’s some universality in all our lives, moments and events that we all can recognize and relate to, and sometimes that recognition can help others who might otherwise feel alone or different or out of synch. Some can see and recognize things in Adri that they see and recognize in themselves or those they love. Also, of course, talking about her does have therapeutic benefits to me as it helps settle and quiet my thoughts and focus my memories, both good and bad, rather than allow them to scatter and bounce around within my head like a million red-hot BBs. 

But, moreover, knowing that people are reading about her and her life allows me to think of her consciousness as a sort of an immortal thing, that in a sense a part of her is still alive and not really gone as long as people are still thinking about her. 

She’s not a character in a novel, of course, but rather one of the main focal points of my life and her children’s lives, but the sentiment is the same.

And if that’s a good enough motive for written expression of a published novelist, it’s good enough for your aunt. Or me, for that matter. Thank you for allowing me to do this and being so supportive and understanding.

It’s been nine months today.