You're invited to do a guest spot, or maybe you're asked to write several posts for your book tour. Instantly, doubts slaps you in the face. Your heart pounds. Your stomach lurches. Maybe not quite that dramatic but you still worry: What will I write about? I have nothing to say, nothing worth reading. I'll make a fool of myself. Or worse, I bore everyone to tears. What can I possibly say that's never been said before? Who am I to tell anyone anything about writing? Nothing--I know nothing!
Really?
You're writer. You've learned a thing or two.
Let me tell you a story...
The Prince George Regional Library invited me to do an evening reading. For two days prior, I spent my usual time in the washroom vomiting. I dragged my husband away from the NHL playoffs so I wouldn't have to face them alone. After the reading, a mother and daughter approached. I could see that the girl was nervous. Her mother kept whispering in her ear and patting her on the back until finally they were next in line.
"Hi," the teenager squeaked.
"She loved your book," the mum said.
The girl blushed. I gave her my best motherly smile.
She stuttered, "I-I loved your book. I-I always wanted to be a writer, but I-I'm just a small town girl. Real writers live in big cities like Montreal and Toronto. They don't live in Prince George. Then I heard you on the radio. I read your book in two days; I loved Valerie. Now I read your blog. You explain stuff I never understood in school. And you live here! Thank you, Mrs. Butler. If you can live here and write about characters who live here, then I know I can too."
That was eight years ago. I think about that young woman often. She'd be about twenty-three. I don't know if she's still reading my blog, but sometimes I write specifically for her.
Please don't under estimate the power of your words. You may have already met the equivalent of this young woman, or maybe not. But know that even if she's never been brave enough to leave a comment, send a personal email, or show up at a reading, it doesn't mean she's not paying attention to every word you write.
Really?
You're writer. You've learned a thing or two.
Let me tell you a story...
The Prince George Regional Library invited me to do an evening reading. For two days prior, I spent my usual time in the washroom vomiting. I dragged my husband away from the NHL playoffs so I wouldn't have to face them alone. After the reading, a mother and daughter approached. I could see that the girl was nervous. Her mother kept whispering in her ear and patting her on the back until finally they were next in line.
"Hi," the teenager squeaked.
"She loved your book," the mum said.
The girl blushed. I gave her my best motherly smile.
She stuttered, "I-I loved your book. I-I always wanted to be a writer, but I-I'm just a small town girl. Real writers live in big cities like Montreal and Toronto. They don't live in Prince George. Then I heard you on the radio. I read your book in two days; I loved Valerie. Now I read your blog. You explain stuff I never understood in school. And you live here! Thank you, Mrs. Butler. If you can live here and write about characters who live here, then I know I can too."
That was eight years ago. I think about that young woman often. She'd be about twenty-three. I don't know if she's still reading my blog, but sometimes I write specifically for her.
Please don't under estimate the power of your words. You may have already met the equivalent of this young woman, or maybe not. But know that even if she's never been brave enough to leave a comment, send a personal email, or show up at a reading, it doesn't mean she's not paying attention to every word you write.
