to those who leave trails
Gratitude for those in my writing community who show me what's possible
I climbed a mountain the day I received my first (and to date, only) short story publication acceptance. We were visiting friends in Denver, and we decided to hike Mt. Flora, a relatively approachable 13,000 foot peak in the Front Range of the Colorado Rockies. Still, "approachable" was challenging to me, due to the altitude and the fact that most hikes near where I live, even if they're long, are through mostly-flat wetlands or prairies.
We started early in the morning, and around midmorning we'd reached the summit. The views were incredible. Then we started down. The descent proved to be equally challenging, and we had to keep stable footing on the paths while our knees and shoes protested and gravity pushed us to move faster than was probably safe. I experienced a whole range of emotions on that hike from frustration and discomfort to exuberance and elation.
A lot of it was beautiful. A lot of it was also pretty tough.
I could say the same for a lot of other hiking trips I’ve taken, which are among my most memorable trips, probably for exactly that reason.
There was the jaunt to the top of Arthur's Seat overlooking Edinburgh.
The trails through Sequoia National Park in California on my honeymoon.
The Christmas we skipped out on family holidays and instead spent two weeks in Boulder, hiking several different ice-encrusted trails in the Flatirons.
The magic of watching the moon come up over Joshua Tree National Park.
The switchbacks coming down the hill at Cape Falcon in Oregon where fellow hikers pointed out a whale visible in the bay below.
The magic-to-challenge ratio of hiking should sound familiar to anyone who writes. The things that provide the most beauty and satisfaction are often pretty tough.
Something I've often wondered when hiking a challenging trail is how those trails got there in the first place. If I’m having a tough time navigating that terrain with a path on it, imagine making your way through a landscape without a trail and trying to visualize where it might make sense to put one. There’s no way I’d get to enjoy the camaraderie of those hikes, and the incredible views from the top if someone hadn’t muddled through that untracked landscape to begin with.
I realize this is literally where the term trailblazers comes from, and in a sense that's what I'm getting at - I’m grateful to the folks in my writerly circles who have blazed a trail that in some way contributed to my understanding of what was possible.
When I started writing, I had a vague sense of what it would mean to make it, or what it would look like to be a real writer. But then I’d see someone doing something else, and doing it well, and I’d think hmmm, maybe there are multiple right ways to do this.
I'm not necessarily talking about the people in my circles who I see as most successful, or the best writers, or the most prolific. They're the people who suggested to me by their own choices and undertakings that there might be room to consider different modes of success, or different ways to muddle through what can be an isolated, low-gratification pursuit and find some joy in it. And if they could do it, maybe I could too.
These folks are the ones who show me that it’s possible to consistently show up to write while maintaining some gentleness and levity about that discipline.
They are the ones who have shown me that making money with a creative practice doesn't necessarily kill the joy in it.
The ones who have put their work into the hands of critique partners, and then over and over again into the inboxes of literary magazines, publishers, and agents, sometimes getting that well-deserved sought-after nod, and sometimes just keeping on despite so many rejections.
Or those who have shown me that publishing your own work is an equally valid path to putting the stories you love out into the world.
The ones who have gently nudged me and said hey, editing might be for you, too.
The ones who have shown me the life-giving momentum of being willing to read and gush over an in-progress manuscript so it doesn’t live only in your head during the long months and years of drafting and revising.
The ones who just work away quietly, pursuing their own artistic visions and knowing what kinds of stories they like, and demonstrating that sometimes the best metric of success is just writing a story that makes you proud.
The ones who share their struggles and down days and commiserate when things aren't going well.
The ones who share their publication acceptances and querying bites and decisions to take things into their own hands, so we can celebrate those wins.
The ones who moderate communities of readers or provide writing advice or critique services so there's a place for everyone to belong and grow.
The ones who share their mood boards and aesthetics and daily word counts so it doesn't feel like I'm working alone when I sit down in my office.
A lot of those I’m describing above are probably the ones reading this newsletter (and the ones who have made it this far in the post.) I want you to know I love and value all of you. It's a joy to witness what you bring to the world as writers and as people. Being surrounded by such a constellation of talent, dedication, encouragement, and drive has fueled me over the years and made this journey one worth taking.
As I mentioned when I announced my editing business, the writing process often feels like a winding labyrinth where sometimes you're heading towards the center, and sometimes, even though you're on the right path, you're walking away from the thing you thought you were after. But the important thing is we're out here together, blazing our own trails, and benefitting from witnessing each other do it. I'm grateful to be in your company.
What a beautiful reflection on our different paths. I really loved this, and it's a great reminder that there certainly isn't only *one* way to be a writer.