Illustration by Stuart Miles at Freerangestock.com
This is a story about introverts and birds-of-a-feather and books and the human community and all sorts of stuff.
I’m a little overwhelmed (and, you might justifiably suggest, incoherent) this morning. I just got back from the Fiction Readers Summit in Grand Rapids, Michigan, which I haven’t said a peep about because I didn’t want Mama and Daddy to worry. (Of course, I made the mistake of calling Mama from a plane, just as the captain decided to outline our flight plan over the loud speaker, and eagle ears immediately asked, “What was that?” I told her my phone was malfunctioning. I doubt she believed me.)
It was inspiring to meet authors who have been at this far longer than I have, to learn from and be encouraged by them. And it was amazing to meet readers from all over the country. I still can’t believe anybody reads my stories. That might sound odd coming from somebody who has been writing for a living since the Reagan administration. But it’s different with the magazine. Southern Living is such a powerful platform that I’ve always seen it as sort of a rocket booster for what I write there—readers will give it a chance just because it’s in their favorite magazine. But for a book club in Indiana to choose one of my stories—I still have trouble wrapping my brain around that.
As honored as I was to be invited to the summit, my closest friends (among them my husband) were stunned that I mustered the courage to go because I am, by nature, an extreme introvert. I’m not a joiner, an attender, or a group activity participator. I have trouble flocking together, even with birds of my feather. But even people like me, whose high school yearbook caption could've read "Awkward In Groups, Among Strangers, And Just In General," need community. Sometimes I forget that.
We all need a sense of connection. We all need to feed and be fed—physically, spiritually, emotionally. A random conversation with one of the authors at the summit gave me exactly what I needed to respond to one of the bleakest young people I’ve ever met—the shuttle driver who took me back to the airport for my trip home. He was so used to talking over and arguing with passengers as he went on and on about how terrible the world is that he wasn’t prepared for, “But you don’t have to live in that world—you can live above it.” Then I took a cue from my late and very dear friend Jane and told him, “You don’t have to read the whole Bible to understand—just read the Gospel of John.” (I added Hebrews, one of my favorites, for good measure.) I truly believe God will use our conversation, as awkward as I was.
Here’s the art-meets-life moment: I have no idea what’s going to happen when I sit down to start a new book. I don’t know if it will sell or if it will mean anything to the readers who buy it. I see now that I’ve been letting those questions affect me a lot more than they should because I have no control over the answers. I can only control what I create—the story that I tell—and even that needs prayer. Even that is sometimes out of my wheelhouse.
That’s true of everybody, not just writers. We have some degree of control over what we create—our individual life stories—but those need daily prayer because they often include plot twists that are completely out of our wheelhouse. Those unexpected turns—good or bad—are the moments when we need community most of all. We need love and understanding and encouragement. Even those of us who flock together awkwardly.
“A new command I give you: Love one another.
As I have loved you, so you must love one another."
John 13:34
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