An unexpected definition of success as a writer.
Too many writers either have unrealistic definitions of success as a writer or no definition at all.
In this post, which will be one of many exploring success, I write about an unexpected definition of success as a writer—but a success nonetheless.
A follow-through with a writing student
I led a local memoir-writing group for many years beginning in 2000. One of the participants, who was with me for perhaps four years, was writing a memoir about a serious illness.
Writing about the disease necessitated revealing some personal material. She was willing to share within the group, given our pledge to confidentiality, but she was uncertain about whether she could share this material with “the world”—however big or small the readership might be, it remained “the world.”
Her reticence was not unreasonable as readers would likely be judging not only the literary quality of the book she was considering publishing but readers would assess the very sensibility of the persons behind the story—herself and her family.
While we like to believe that this is not the case, it inevitably is.
A long time passes
It has been many years since this woman and I met every other week in a group to write memoir. In that time since we worked together, I have seen her on and off at community events. As most of us do when meeting somebody that we don’t meet frequently, we resort to topics that are familiar and accessible. For me, when I meet a former workshopper, this is usually something like, “How is your memoir coming along?”
For a number of those years when we met by happenstance, she was evidently continuing to be involved with her memoir. When I’d meet her, she would tell me about progress that she had made—perhaps telling me she was feeling more confident about revealing personal material, perhaps pleased she was increasing the level of detail in her work. But there were other times when we met that she would say to me, “Oh, I have been busy doing this and that and I have put off writing for now.” But, even so, I retained a sense that she was committed to the story and would get back to writing it.
Writing a memoir always involves a very personal timetable. Some people sit down and write a memoir in a short time—sometimes as brief as six months. But other people need a much longer time to digest their material. They need to linger, to ponder, to somehow make sense of a theme or a voice that is eluding them.
Meeting my writing student again
Recently, when I attended a dance concert, I once again came face-to-face with my writer friend. Inevitably, we exchanged some warm-up pleasantries, and then I asked her how her memoir was coming along. I always liked her writing and thought it to be clear, intelligent and meaningful. I felt that her memoir would make a significant book that others would be interested in reading.
This time, rather than speak to me about the progress or the hold that was characterizing her memoir, she remained somewhat speechless, embarrassed.
“Have you come to an end in your writing?” I asked.
Again, it seemed that she was embarrassed and did not want to admit that she had perhaps abandoned her memoir.
Formulating an unexpected definition of success as a writer
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