Sometime in the spring of 1974 — another year of persistent underachievement in my elementary academic life — I wrote a poem about a penny. It was called “Richard Penny.” My teacher liked it. Later, the principal congratulated me. It was the only time I spoke to that man without the shadow of discipline between us.
It was during this time, or soon after, that I began to imagine the various ways in which writing might be a part of my future life. It took quite a while for my imagination to promote me from writer to author; but once that was done — perhaps by the fall of grade eight — the trajectory of my creative life was pretty much set.
Twenty years later, when my first book was published, many of those early dreams took final shape and were fulfilled. I have many fond memories of that period, during which I reached back, in my mind, to that young and struggling kid and told him that yeah, it had worked out. One way or another, it had worked out.
Now, as I approach the publication of my third book, I’m starting to think more and more about what this writing gig is all about. I’ve received that confirmation I sought for so long; I’ve had more praise than I deserve; I’ve met and heard from many kind readers and supportive friends of my work. It has been a wondrous ride.
Though not without hurdles. And increasingly, those hurdles have to do with what writers (ahem, authors) are required to do in order to keep their work in front of the reading public. These days, writing books seems to be as much about business as about the call of creativity. Likely it has always been this way, and I’m just slow in figuring that out. At any rate, what I’m returning to — what I’m finally coming around to, what I discovered with that penny poem — has more to do with the joys of creativity than with the business of publishing.
And so, with my upcoming book on addictions, I’ve decided to move beyond the machinery of the publishing industry. I’d like to craft a small and interesting book, something I can design and produce and share with others. It has taken me quite some time to arrive here, and I apologize to the many people to whom I’ve given provisional answers about when the book will be coming out. It has been more difficult than I thought it would be to decide, finally, that I would like to carry this book within the circle of my own care.
As my wife reminds me whenever I need reminding, no one will ever care about my creative work as much as I do. If I want to cherish that work, to usher it into the world with an integrity that matches my vision, I must be the architect of that process. No deal, no contract, no royalty will replace the sacredness of the trust that my creativity asks of me.
Thankfully, I don’t earn my living through writing. If I did, the situation would perhaps be different. I have the luxury — perhaps that’s the wrong word, but it’s the word I have — of treating my creative work as a devotion, and of investing time and energy (and money, too, after all) without profit at the top of my list of priorities. I have the luxury — and here it’s the right word — of responding to my work with the authentic joy of that boy who loved writing poetry. For the joy of the adventure, and of what it brings.
And here is where the adventure lies now: the text is almost complete, the editing is almost done, the design is beginning to take shape. I’m thinking about a fall release, a small event with friends and interested readers. If you want to be a part of this event, just drop me a line.
The journey of the new book starts here, in this moment in which I decide to return to what I glimpsed so long ago: the work, always the work and its promises. My work.
