Everything in Your Head

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Being Read

A few days ago, as I approached the house where we hold a weekly drumming circle, I was greeted by a fellow member of our happy little group. As we walked the remaining steps towards the house, carrying our djembes inside their own special backpacks, she said furtively, “I’m reading your book. Started it last night.” With a sudden urge to run for my very life, I said, “Guess there’s no hiding for me now.” To which, she laughed and teased, “Yes, I can see everything in your head.” Imagine.

For many months after the publication of Your Body Was Made for This, I lived to hear news of my work. I wanted to know who was reading the book and what they thought. Did they feel empowered by the perimenopausal women who boldly sought to own their bodies? Did they question our relationship as a society to notions of beauty, sexuality, and agency in women over fifty? Who knows? I’m still interested in such matters, but my attention is focused on the next book I’m writing now and that’s healthy.

Writing Is the Better Part

We went on to have a glorious time playing our drums that evening, but the thought stayed with me and I found myself ruminating on what it means to write a book that is published. It is different from pure and simple writing for the most obvious reason. Once a book is published, the writing cannot be changed. To everyone dreaming of getting published, I’d like to tell you that writing is the better part of the experience. At least for me, the unfettered exploration of revising holds practically infinite possibilities. Along with the unsurpassed joy, I felt a measure of sadness when it was time to sign off on the print galleys because it meant it was over.

Yeah, I know. Poor me. But truthfully, it is an overwhelming and paradoxical experience to put a book into the world. Looking back, that might be one of the things I enjoyed most—being overwhelmed by paradoxes. Each uncomfortable truth holds a big pop of magic because that’s what complication does. And so perhaps, I must qualify what I said earlier about writing being the better part because getting published can also be an opportunity for transformation in a way I’d previously not owned. Let me explain.

Not Mine, No Really

First, although the stories passed through me and I worked very hard to bring them into the world, they do not really belong to me in any meaningful way. I imagined lives that are not mine, I tried to accurately record what those imagined people felt, and I hoped to expand my capacity for compassion in the process. None of that makes the stories mine.

Unique for Every Person

Second, a story exists only in the moment. It might be in print, it might consist of words that are countable, but a story is not an unchanging, solid thing. Words are abstractions. We each bring our own experiences to their interpretation. Stories are felt experiences. Therein lies their wonder and magic, and perhaps a big part of the reason that stories are essential to all human society.

What does that mean? When a story works for an individual person, they engage their imagination in a reenactment of the events and feelings that can sometimes be so powerful it is as if they had the experience themselves. Yeah, amazing! I mean, think about that. And now, think about the stories that have meant a lot to you and how you felt reading them.

Big Magic

Each person imagining has their own unique experience anchored in the moment when they are reading. If they should happen to read the story again, they could have an entirely different experience. Say what? I know. Such thoughts could cause your brain to explode, particularly if you are the author of the story. But like I said earlier, the story is not mine. Equally so, the reaction each reader has to my work? Guess what? That is not mine either.

I remember reading about this phenomenon in “Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear” by Elizabeth Gilbert. If you haven’t read this book which is jammed full of insights about creativity, I highly recommend it. Wisely, she observed, that what happens in the relationship between a reader and a book is none of the author’s business. As she says in her book, “Recognizing this reality—that the reaction doesn’t belong to you—is the only sane way to create” (125).

Back to the Unknown

In the end as a writer, joy and meaning are created by the deliberate act of stepping into the unknown. The next work is the only work. All I know for sure is that the writing, the putting together of words seeking to understand human experience—that is both the reason and the result. Also, I am happiest when I’m writing.