When I was 4 years old, my family moved into an apartment on the top floor of a printing plant. No, I'm not kidding. The printing plant we lived in, Impremerie Lutheriene, was in the capital city on the island of Madagascar. My parents were missionaries. I used to ride my tricycle around the 3-color machines delighting the workers as I breezed past.. Evenings, when my brothers were home from boarding school, I'd sit on a stool in the larger darkroom and watch the magic of the camera come to life as the photo paper soaked in the developer and then the fixer. I've been in love with pictures and paper and words ever since. I think I've wanted to write a book since I was born and to publish one since I lived and breathed it in that place as a child. My dad, who was also a missionary pastor, was the editor-in-chief, meaning he was in charge of the whole place. How this farm boy turned pastor came to be an editor is a mystery, but there we were. He regularly explained the whole process from artwork to camera to darkroom to offset machines, printing, cutting and binding. We even had a leather department. I adored watching the magic of a book being formed from beginning to end. It was so cool. It was my little piece of heaven, a place where imagination could become reality.
As a middle-aged mother of four, happily married to my college sweetheart, my house is crawling with books that I have read and re-read and books that are begging to be read for the first time. I think I'm about two years behind in my reading. And my couch is piled with papers, that have scribbles on them. I'm a pile-er, not a filer. I'm also a scribbler/doodler. As soon as I have a thought, I write it down so I don't forget. Whew! My husband and I live in a recently emptied nest. A month ago we even buried our seventeen and half year old dog. So suddenly I have all this attention to give whatever I want and just a sure as there are words on this digital page, my longing has gone back to that publishing house with the smell of fresh ink and cut paper.
Never mind all those books longing to be read; I suddenly want to write my own. My heart is full of books aching to be written and shared. My soul is full of life and wisdom and messy spirituality just itching to be shared, poetry and anecdote, essay and photograph. It's exciting and scary. I'm petrified. I'm nervous about telling people. Already some of my friends think I've been twiddling my thumbs as a stay-at-home mom. Imagine what they will think when they find out I'm spending my days writing? What if I spend hundreds of hours and all my energy on publishing a book and no one even likes it? What if no one reads it? What if I write all these crazy blogs and no one reads them? Does it matter if I get readers? I don't know. I guess that's part of the point of putting the writing out there. I want to share it.
The world of writing is glutted with writers and books and publishers. I've come to believe that it is success is arbitrary. I've actually been writing for years. Even this blog has been around for several years. But how do you get readers? How do you get the word out there?
A few years ago, I bought a new little camera, a Canon SX 110. IS. It turned out to be a genius move. Through the lens of that camera I have been seeing echoes of those old photos my brothers took and developed. I've been finding the beauty and mystery in the present moment. And just as surely I've been finding delight in the words that fall on the page. I have the most fun just writing like this about random moments in time and space. But where does it all lead? I've got ideas but I haven't got a clue.
I've been blogging for several years now and still have only two followers. Does that mean I've wasted my time? Is it a waste of time if I've delighted in every inspiration written. Does it matter that only two people get the blog and maybe read it? Isn't it enough to just delight in the process?
Four months ago, I wandered into the idea of finally creating a book. I sat down and came up with a design and voila! I made a book.. And just like that childhood so long ago, I fell in love with the paper and the photos and the words. I did it all. I took the pictures and chose carefully where to place each one on the page. I chose my words carefully. It was so much fun that I didn't mind the hours and weeks it took to make it just so. I wanted to share it with everyone so I thought I would self-publish. If only my dad could see me now. If only my dad could help me now. In spite of all the technology and ease of self-publishing, it is still rather difficult and expensive to self-publish. Finding a publisher or even a decent printer is like looking for a needle in haystack. And with e-books gaining popularity, who is going to want a book that is photographs, a book that i want you to touch and hold in your hands while you ponder it?
I've shown my book to quite a few friends now and though many have said, "nice" or "beautiful," I am as far from selling it as I am from that apartment in that publishing house of my childhood. Does it matter? Isn't it enough that I let myself delight in something enough to create it in joy? Does it matter that I may never sell it?
In this culture where success is so connected to your ability to produce and sell, to your ability to provide for your own welfare, it is hard to see the value in joy and peace, creativity and curiosity.. I find myself wishing that I didn't know about this culture, that I was still the ignorant and delightful four year old thinking the magic of the dark room was as good as it gets. I wish I could be okay with just having done something that I love so much. Oh how I long for that tricycle and that place of magic where books grew out of paper and ink and joy.
