I was nervous. Usually the programs I do at libraries or writing groups center around my gig as a self-published author. Not this time. The Program Committee of the Grand Rapids Library wanted something different from me, something relating to the inner struggles and demons of creative writing. So, as I prepared to give my talk, working on an outline and drawing considerable expertise from Bird by Bird by Ann Lamott, and The Writing Life by Annie Dillard (with a little Julia Cameron thrown in for good measure), I was nervous.
Who am I to be giving writing advice to anyone? I have a history and political science degree, not an MFA.
There’s this thing that happens to all writers, I think, and I am no exception, when we have worked at our craft for a few decades without achieving commercial success or fame. While all writers harbor self-doubt, for those of us who choose to self-publish and then talk about the experience, well, the term “self-doubt” isn’t an adequate measure of the level of inadequacy we harbor. So putting it all out in front of twenty to thirty relative strangers is a daunting experience for even someone as brash as me.
Driving from Duluth to Grand Rapids last night, I managed to calm my nerves by listening to the Black Keys, a CD my third son gave me for Christmas. He’s a creative soul like me still trying to find his muse in words or music. He understands what makes me tick when it comes to putting words out into the world for public scrutiny and the Black Keys wasn’t something he shared on a whim. The music helped and soon, I was pulling into downtown Grand Rapids to grab a bite to eat at the Chinese buffet.
Before eating, I stopped in at Village Books, the town’s only independent bookstore, and chatted with Mike, the owner, about the state of indies in a world dominated by Amazon, Walmart, and Barnes and Noble. It’s tough duty, selling books retail these days, especially in the midst of a recession and against the recent tidal wave of eBooks and eReaders. The indies, including Village, are dear to this writer’s heart, because they are the little engines of local commerce that put my work into the hands of avid readers. Sure, I sell through Amazon and the other giants, and my latest novel, Laman’s River is available for eReaders. But the indies are where I meet my loyal fans face to face and as I left Mike and his wife to their work, I was saddened to think that progress may include the disappearance of such places.
My friend Randy and his wife Kath met me in the library parking lot as I was hauling in a bin of books to sell after my talk. I got to know the McCartys when Randy and his book club selected Suomalaiset as a book for their group some years back. I’ve been blessed with their support for my writing for nearly a decade; support that includes a bed at their lovely home on Lake Pokegama whenever I’m passing through. Their presence on a dark night, as snow flurries danced around us in the parking lot, did much to buoy my spirit and reassured me that the evening wouldn’t be a total disaster.
And then, it was time to begin. My anxiety lifted as the crowd laughed at the appropriate times and seemed genuinely engaged by my presentation. I finished my talk in exactly one hour, the marker I was hoping to hit. A dozen or so folks asked serious and well-reasoned questions at the end of the lecture. By then, I was completely relaxed and at ease with what had transpired.
It was a good night, a very good night.
The library was closed, the public had left, and the lights were off when Randy, Kath, and I made our way outside. We said our goodbyes in the parking lot. I loaded my unsold books into the Pacifica, took off my coat, climbed into the car, and headed home. The snow had stopped. The Black Keys were playing again. And I was happy I’d agreed to share my time and my passion with the good folks of Grand Rapids, Minnesota.
Peace.
Mark
