Being a writer suits me just fine. The solitude, the freedom and the slow, challenging process are all invigorating aspects I enjoy about writing stories. But being an author is wildly outside my cozy place.
Whenever a friend, family member, co-worker or stranger asks me about Imaginary Boy, the middle grade novel I recently authored, my initial reaction is ‘yes, I did write said book, its about a boy with cerebral palsy,’ then I quickly change the subject to anything other than my book.
First, I am acutely aware that no one wants to hear someone talk incessantly about some book they wrote. Especially your family and peers.
Second, when someone asks me about my book it feels like an invasion of privacy. Alas, it is! An invasion I have invited! People and places only I have known for years are now known by others. What is this?
But then something happened. Someone actually read Imaginary Boy and was moved to tears, the same way I was moved when I was writing it. How can this be?
Then I remembered the way IB made me feel, the memories it recalled, the sorrow, the failure, the hope, the triumph. You see, Imaginary Boy is a story very close to me. And a good thing it is too.
Now a strange and wonderful thing has come to be. The Author has discovered what the Writer could not, and that is this.
Because the story is personal to me, it can be personal to others.
With the writer, the challenge of crafting a story is its own reward.
But the author’s reward is to share, and any story too personal to discuss is worth sharing with others.