We writers and editors
often find ourselves pushed back out of the limelight. Maybe we’re even
misunderstood. Others don’t always point to us and say, “He’s going to change
people’s lives someday with the words he writes” or “She’s going to edit a book
and help a great writer achieve renown and spread an important message.” We’re
the loners: stereotyped as always cooped up in our bedrooms pounding away at a
keyboard or scribbling upon page after page of manuscripts with the dreaded red
pen. Everyone has a favorite teacher who influenced their lives in some way,
modeled great character, or assisted them with finding their career path.
Who has a favorite
editor? And even favorite writers are generally loved for what they produce
versus who they are. For instance, I love Jane Austen’s work. But I’ve never
met her. I can only imagine that she had the type of witty, clever personality
that radiates throughout her work, but maybe in person she was awkward, stuttering,
and shy. Who can say?
Basically, writers and
editors live in the background. We may know writer’s names but we don’t
consider their career choice as practical or even, necessarily, important. In a
world where everyone Tweets about the latest wins of their favorite football
teams, updates their Facebook statuses to ask about the most recent movie
release, and goes home every night to their prerecorded episodes of their
favorite TV shows, why is a writer important? Everyone needs a teacher on their
path to finding that job they’ll make a living from. But do we need editors
that much? Writers? Who really thinks about that?
And how people perceive
us isn’t our only struggle in the literary world. What if that book you edit
doesn’t make the bestseller list? Or maybe you pour blood, sweat, and tears
into a book only to publish it to an enthralled and moved audience of a handful
of people. You felt compelled to share something that tugs at your heartstrings,
but your book is left to collect dust on shelves and be forgotten while others
talks about the other things or people around them that changed their life,
their minds, and their attitude. Do we strive to produce good literature for
nothing?
The answer, for me, is
to remember why I chose writing and editing in the first place, outside of my
love for the two. Our motives can’t revolve around making a name for ourselves,
if we want to experience success and satisfaction in our pursuits. We have to
have a passion about what we’re sharing. We have to believe it’s worth it, no
matter if one person or millions read the words we spread.
I remember the books
that have influenced my life, my thoughts, and my perspective. A teacher or
doctor or engineer might make more tangible differences in the world, but we
writers and editors are there in the background giving them a hand. We’re there
in the textbooks we write or edit for the teachers. We’re there in the
guidebooks that offer direction. We’re there in the books parents read to
children at bedtime. We’re there in the dictionaries that make communication
clearer and more effective. We’re there in the fictional novels and the
literature others discuss and draw ideas from or pick “role model” characters
to look up to. We’re there in the thoughts and ideas and agendas we put into
words.
It’s not about us. In
fact, sometimes it may be best if we remain in the background, less “known,”
for the sake of promoting our words all the more. We like J.R.R. Tolkien and
C.S. Lewis, Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, and even J.K. Rowling and Susan
Collins (whether you consider The Hunger
Games “literary” or not), rarely because we know their names or read news
or biographies about them, but usually because we know their messages. Their
books contain ideas that inspire us or make us think, or characters and morals
that motivate us to be better. In some way,
what they wrote has influenced us.
It may not be in a very
tangible way (how can you measure the impact you have on someone’s mind or
heart?), it may bear some loneliness or bad stereotypes, it may keep us “in the
background,” but language is influential.
Whether he actually said them or not, Abraham Lincoln’s alleged words during
the Civil War to Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, serve as a rallying cry to authors: “So this is
the little lady who started this big war.” Who is to say that your book,
whether it makes an impact on the world, a nation, or just a handful of people,
isn’t important? If it’s important to you, someone else is bound to glean
something valuable from it.
So maybe coping with
this “lone writer” syndrome involves in changing our perspectives and
priorities. Maybe our definition of success shouldn’t be founded in what others
think or say about us or even what we write. Our success lies not in who knows
our names or how many people know our works, but in whether or not we share our
messages.
