I did it my way

On wanting to bring joy into the world

Ever since I started reading books, which is almost as far back as I can remember, I thought what a marvelous thing stories were. I loved reading, and read anything I could get my hands on — which in those days, wasn’t as much as I would have liked.

I raided the shelves in the basement where my parents had stashed old books along with a bunch of old children’s books. There were Readers’ Digest magazines, Aesop’s Fables, along with Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew and the Bobbsey Twins.

But before that, there was Narnia, sitting on the couch snuggled with Mom and my gross brother, and before that, there was the newspaper and its endless smudgy black ink (I could “read” by sounding out the words without knowing what I was reading). And before that, I was snuggled with Mom and my gross brother, who at that time was just a tiny baby and arguably less gross but just as much of a competitive threat for my parents’ attention, and I was learning to read by mixing and matching the words Mom had written out on the columns of a stenographers’ notepad, carefully cut down the centre line. I presume this was in an effort to keep me busy and perhaps keep jealousy at bay while my baby brother was nursing.

These are the key plot points.

At some point, possibly during the Nancy Drew days, I became aware that there was a person behind — responsible for — the books I loved so much. It sounds silly, but it’s true. It was akin to when a child develops object permanence, a lifting of the veil.

Books didn’t just exist. Someone wrote them.

The next thought that dawned on me was, of course, that if someone had written the books I loved to read, then maybe, perhaps, one day, I could become one of those someones too.

And wouldn’t that be amazing?

I have at various times wanted to be the next Virginia Woolf, Thomas Hardy, Jean M. Auel, Margaret Atwood, Margaret Laurence, J.K. Rowling… the list is long, and it has evolved along with my reading preferences.

At the core of this yearning to be a Great Author was that I wanted to create the same joy for people that I found in reading. And of course, in my heart of hearts, I wanted someone to think of me the way I thought of my favorite authors — with amazement and delight and awe.

But Virginia Woolf was writing in a very different time than the 80s and 90s were, which was when I was having these thoughts. And expecting to be the next Virginia Woolf is perhaps setting the bar a tad too high. Margaret Atwood, too, for that matter, didn’t break into the literary scene with a polished pitch, an agent, a business plan, a media pack, and an author platform and eager following of 1,000+ fans ready to shell out $35 for her next novel. No, she too got her start in a different era.

In my naiveté, I thought all one had to do was write well to become the next Great Canadian Author.¹

The journey has been long and demotivating, at times confidence crushing. But I’ll spare you the dirty drama of the university Creative Writing workshops, as it’s hardly relevant.

If there’s no money in it, there’s no interest in publishing it. What could I possibly write that would generate enough interest — and revenue — to make publishing something worthwhile?

I have come to realize that there is nothing — or that if there is, it would be a fluke, an accident, something totally beyond my sphere of influence.

And that’s a freeing thought because what it means is that I don’t have to do it the “right” way and follow the rules. I can do it my way and break the rules or make new ones.

And so, I did.

I self-published two thin volumes of stories about friendship. Writing them filled me with joy, illustrating them was a fabulously happy experience of creating and learning, and sharing them, despite some trepidation, fills me with glee. I created a thing! Well, two things actually. And now, three.

I made them with a heart full of love and appreciation. I would love for you to read them and share them with the people you love.

They will never make me (or any publisher) a profit, and that’s just fine.

But perhaps they will make the world a more joyful place.

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For now, the only way to get a copy is to buy one from Lulu at the links below.

I plan to look into printing a bunch of copies and asking local shops if they would carry a few copies. If that happens, I’ll post an update!

1. And failure to become a Great Author meant you weren’t a good writer, which is clearly not the case, as many bad writers make a good living at the trade.