Alright, this is a pretty sentimental post.
I've been trying to figure out how to word what I want to word correctly for a while now.
That isn't a good trait as a writer, but it's probably a common one.
At least for me.
I've spoken before (and written) about support, friends and family and how much they matter when trying to do something crazy like write.
There is something about this time of year, though, that makes me want to say it again.
Because "thank you" just isn't enough.
I have been so, so blessed in the support of people around me. For The Girl with the Empty Suitcase, I had friends volunteer to beta read for me. I had coworkers buy my book, and show up for my book launch. Even before that, friends listened to me talk about a particular character or situation. Men who spend their time hunting and fishing and definitely not reading, showed up to my launch and bought a copy of my book, just to support me. (Heck, some even read it!) And other coworkers told students and family members and community members to read my book. They listen when I am in a writing contest, they offer encouragement and congratulations and ask questions. They try to weasel their way into my future writings. They stop by and say hi when I am selling at a market.
And my friends, who do all of that, who buy my book as gifts for their friends and family at Christmas, who brag to their own coworkers and recommend my book, who even sell it. Who leave reviews! Who discuss writers and books with me for hours, until we've eaten dinner and had several drinks and realize we've covered the greats from the classics but haven't even started in on the modern writers yet, and just how did we get onto this topic anyway?
Who have made me feel so proud and small by their own accomplishments and talents, who are just such good people, and yet talk about me finishing a book as though it was anything more than indenting little keys on a little laptop over and over again. My friends who inspire. Who support. Who talk again and again with me about sentences or characters or grammar or stories or the books we read.
Who make me want to be a better writer. A better reader. A better teacher, a better friend, a better person. The best version of who I could be, who I want to be; someone worthy of these crazy awesome people who show up time and again because they choose to.
My students make me a better person, too. Teaching makes me a better writer, and a better human being. Beyond the grammar stuff, there is so much humanity and intensity and words that are wrapped up in a high school classroom. I get to talk about language and literature every day. I get to convince sixteen-year-olds that Shakespeare is the epitome of storytelling. I get to hang out with teenagers and glimpse these crazy creatures that sometimes drive me crazy but also make me so, so proud to know them. All of that fuels my writing. And then you know what they do? They buy my book. They wrap it up for Christmas gifts. They tell me they read it, and reread it. They leave reviews. The first person who wasn't a family member at my launch for The Girl with the Empty Suitcase was a student. He helped set up books, and sat in the front row. He saved seats for his friends.
My family, my in-laws. They show up. They help. They work behind the scenes. Heck, my mother-in-law had the cover art done for To Air the Laundry months upon months before my first draft was done! They are tireless, and so amazing. They hosted my launch, they drove around to get my books (funny story there... well, now it's funny...), they give me pieces to use in my display for my markets and even sit with me for hours. They buy copies of my book for everyone in the family tree. They talk about books with me, and support my love of them with so much. (Okay, maybe it's a bit of enabling an addiction, too.)
I am fairly convinced that my husband is the single best support on the planet. Do you know what that looks like? He shows up. Again and again and again and again. He shows up. He shows up to help me set up for markets, and take down. A couple weeks ago I was setting up for a market in Sparwood, and he not only set out my suitcase of books, he suggested things like using a particular tablecloth a particular way for texture. A small little thing like that. When I was working on the cover for The Girl with the Empty Suitcase, he looked at the font for the title, the spacing on the back matter. He offered his opinion when I asked, and helped make it better. He sat behind the table with his mom, selling my books at my launch. Before the book came out, without my suggesting it, he set up a pre-order station at his work so his coworkers could order signed copies of my book. He's hauled my materials for markets and boxes of books. He's made me "nests" on the couch where I can cuddle under a pile of blankets while I write, and he's brought me tea or wine while I furiously type a chapter. He's listened to me again and again and again while I figure out a character or a conflict piece or voice my frustration about my word counts. When I am stuck on an idea for a contest, he might offer a suggestion. Or he might tell me to stop questioning myself and go with my gut.
He reads every. single. thing that I write, before anyone else, even when it is not at all his type of story or writing. When I opened that first package with that first copy of my first book, he got the selfie of it. He offers the most constructive feedback and makes me a better writer.
He makes me a better person. I overheard him say, at my launch, that he was proud of me.
He makes me want to be someone who earns that feeling, that pride in me.
I've noticed that a lot of my writing has people with less-than-perfect marriages, less-than-perfect husbands. That isn't because of some secret problem; just the opposite. I can write problematic husbands because it is the exact opposite of the one I have. If I can convincingly write about a man not being supportive of his wife's aspirations, then it is because I have a man who is beynd any expectation of supportive. If I can write about a woman who feels a disconnect in her marriage, it's because I am so connected to my best friend I married.
Sure, this is all rather mushy, rather sentimental. But with the holiday season, and with friends of mine showing up again and again and with beta reading for my new book about to begin, I wanted to attempt to say thank you. But I cannot.
I cannot express my thanks, not because I cannot find the words to say thank you, but because the words do not exist.
Thank you for enduring this sentimental post from me. At least that I can thank you for.