The Winter of a Writer's Discontent

It's not quite winter yet according to the calendar. But the year is drawing to a close, which means end-of-year literary accolades are being trumpeted on social media, with best-of-year lists proliferating everywhere.

Lists that my own sweet, beautiful book is NOT on!!!  

Lists that most of my friends' books aren't on, either. Though certainly, a quick glance at Facebook reveals many friends posting how grateful, honored, humbled, etc. they are by the honors showering down upon them. As George Gershwin wrote, and Ella Fitzgerald sang, "They're writing songs of love - but not for me." And maybe not for you, either. 

This is a hard time of year to be a writer.

Mind you, we disconsolate ones are the lucky ones who actually had a book published in 2024! We are the fortunate few who ended up with a publisher's contract and a book with our name on the cover to hold in our hands. It is becoming harder and harder to squeeze one's way into that increasingly select society. Even writer friends reaping all this delicious end-of-year attention have long-time editors pass on their next book; after all, stellar reviews don't necessarily translate into sales. Even friends whose books sell heaps and heaps of copies lately are getting more than their share of rejections.

It's always been a hard time to be a professional writer - but lately, it seems, even harder.

So what is a poor, self-pitying writer to do? What tidings of comfort and joy can we offer ourselves? 

Alas, I have nothing better to offer than to remind myself that, hey, I actually like to write. In fact, I love to write. My happiest hour of the day, which I call "my hour of bliss," is when I'm curled up with pen and pad of paper, putting words on the page in my tiny scribbly penmanship. I enjoy this vastly more than I enjoy doing the New York Times Spelling Bee puzzle, which I also do faithfully every day. 

I also love sharing my writing with others, but there are MANY ways to do this. One friend is having a blast writing "fan fiction" (for a TV series I never heard of) and garnering lots of enthusiasm for it from her fellow fans. Another friend has become a storyteller and hosts small, intimate storytelling gatherings in her home. I am going to give the sermon in the worship service at my church on the last Sunday of this month. And my sweetheart's birthday is this month, too; he ADORES my poetry, and I'm woefully behind in writing some new poems for him as a birthday gift. 

The inimitable Brenda Ueland in her wonderful 1938 book If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit, has a chapter pondering "Why a Renaissance Nobleman Wrote Sonnets." She notes that it was NOT with the hope of "getting them in the Woman's Home Companion" (ha!!!). No, a Renaissance nobleman wrote sonnets "to tell a certain lady that he loved her," so that he "knew and understood his own feeling better" and "knew more what love is." We write, Ueland said quite simply, for "the enlargement of the soul." 

Yes, publication is nice. Yes, end-of-year fuss and fanfare are pleasant. I still want these. I am still going to try to get them in the years to come, though whether I do is chiefly up to the universe, not to me. But in the meantime, I might as well keep on writing. It enlarges my soul more than the New York Times Connections puzzle is ever going to do.