This month’s column was inspired by an email exchange between myself and fellow WUer Deb Lacativa, who has recently discovered my work and, it humbly pleases me to say, has become a fan. It’s the reason she’s become a fan that I’d like to focus on here. In a nutshell it’s because we’re so much alike. We’re nearly the same age and shared a ton of common experiences “back in the day” (back, that is, before they had the phrase “back in the day.”) We both understand that we came of age in the golden era between the advent of the Pill and the onset of AIDS; we know what a difference that made.
Here was Deb’s provocative question when she’d finished reading my novel of the 1960s, Lucy in the Sky:
“How does this fucking Zeitgeist thing actually work? Are our experiences so awfully common? How could we both have characters named Jude and Ray? I know! “Hey Jude” and “You can call me Ray,” that’s how. Shit just gets into the gray matter grooves. How did my mother’s friggin’ Chevelle come into play [in your story]? The list goes on, but you’d be bored unless you’d heard me squeal like a stricken goat each time I came across another parity. Were all our experiences that one year so compressed, focused? Did we all get the acid, one way or another? I’m beginning to believe it’s true.”
Deb, I’m beginning to believe it, too. We drank (smoked, snorted, swallowed) from the well of common experience, and as a consequence, our innocent little 1950s-born selves were torn down and rebuilt from scratch in the ‘60s and ‘70s. When people come from the same place and the same time, they shouldn’t be surprised to find that they think the same way.
What I am surprised about is how I have for so long overlooked this obvious reality, and its impact on my reach as an author.
Yes, yes, I know that I describe my books as “for young seekers and old geezers,” but that flip positioning ignores the underlying truth: My books are for me – for people exactly like me! If I could just get word out to every aging hippie and/or proto-punk that “here’s the story of your life,” I could sell as many books as, well, as there are aging hippies and/or proto-punks.
[pullquote]When people come from the same place and the same time, they shouldn’t be surprised to find that they think the same way. What I am surprised about is how I have for so long overlooked this obvious reality, and its impact on my reach as an author. [/pullquote]But that’s not the half of it. That’s just the sales part, the part that wants to see tens of monthly dollars turn into hundreds of monthly dollars in my several online revenue streams. What’s really important is, yikes, did I ever reach this reader! When Deb wrote, “I had to keep staying my hand from picking up the laptop like an aboriginal to see where and how you had gotten in,” what few hairs I have stood on end. That’s exactly what I wanted to accomplish as an author. What I’ve always wanted to accomplish. And I didn’t even know it!
When people have asked me what writing is all about, I’ve often put it in terms of code. As writers, we encode our thoughts into words, then transmit those words to readers, who decode the words back into thought. If we do our jobs well, then what we think gets encoded and decoded without too much signal loss and the reader gets our point. This, I now see, is a thin explanation. What it’s really about is getting jacked in, brain to brain, so that the question of encoding and decoding goes away, and all that’s left is connection – pure, unadulterated communion that transcends time, space, page, screen, everything. Wow. That’s what gets me high. That’s what got me high when Deb wrote what she wrote. For this one reader, this one time, I fulfilled my highest purpose as a writer: I met minds. It’s happened before; I flatter myself that it will happen again. But I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it happening with such clarity and such… gratitude. For all the copies of The California Roll that sit in a warehouse somewhere (or my garage) gathering dust; for all the wisdom in Killer Poker that has been rendered obsolete by the evolution of that game; for all the unpurchased iterations of A Million Random Words (what the hell was I thinking with that one?) there’s this one pure, perfect moment of absolute harmonic resonance. Today I know in my bones that at last as a writer I’ve, well, made my bones.
What does this tell all of us about all of us? That communion is what we should seek. We’re not here to inform, instruct, entertain, any of that. We’re here to touch. And when we touch, we feel it like an electric shock from the top of our heads to the soles of our feet. At least if we let ourselves – if we allow ourselves the moment of openness and vulnerability and, yes, gratitude, that looks past all the bullshit about sales and marketing and audience. Our audience isn’t readers, it’s reader. A reader. Just one. That’s all it takes to feel fulfilled.
Oh, I have to toss in one last quote from Deb, just because it popped the balloon of my ego before it got too big: “Speaking of girls, I appreciated that you didn’t pretend to know what was really going on in their heads.”
Well, speaking as a boy, who does?
So what was your magic moment? When did you know in your heart of hearts that the blood, sweat and tears you pour into your work was worth it because the evidence stood before your eyes that a reader had been reached? If that experience yet lies ahead for you, let me tell you, it’s better than all the drugs that Deb, or I, or any of my characters ever took.
About John Vorhaus
John Vorhaus has written seven novels, including Lucy in the Sky, The California Roll, The Albuquerque Turkey and The Texas Twist, plus the Killer Poker series and (with Annie Duke) Decide to Play Great Poker. His books on writing include The Comic Toolbox, How to Write Good and Creativity Rules!
Well, I could say it was after my daughter read my first attempt at YA fiction last year and gave my first book blurb: “I liked it, Dad, but the Scarecrow didn’t fall asleep with Dorothy, it was the Cowardly Lion.”
I’ll forever hold that gem in my heart.
Actually, it happened way back in the 1990s, the lost years before Facebook (my editor says I have to capitalize Facebook, let’s get a debate started). A colleague asked to see what I’d written in my ever-present notebook, so I let him read it. It was a short story I’d been messing with and it it I describe a forty-something waitress in a diner.
This was about the time in my life when I realized that beauty goes way beyond the surface. As my much younger character watched her, he thought about how beautiful she must have been, and then he decided she still was. That’s the paraphrase, anyway.
My colleague set the notebook down and said, “Wow…I think you’re in my head.”
Yeah, I love those moments when we nail it. I think it’s so hard to do because we have to reveal something about ourselves that we’d just as soon nobody know. This is probably why older writers have an advantage. It gets easier to stop giving a damn what anyone thinks of us.
Thanks for the post.
Jon,this post resonated with me. Yesterday, I received a phone call from a potential reader. She had read a feature story about my memoir in the local newspaper. “You have written my story,” she said, then went on to relay how we were similar. When a reader tells me , the story “hits home”, I know I’ve done my job. You are right, there is nothing quite like connecting with a reader on that level. Thanks for a great post.
It happened to me the first time I ever read my story to others – at writing group. People gasped, a tiny intake of air, that I made them do with words. I felt like I’d performed a magic trick. I’ve always been able to make people laugh, but the gasp was new.
Another time I sent a small section of the book to a friend and she wrote back saying that she’d forgotten it was me who was writing.
One of the things I love about the internet and social media is that I can find my favorite authors and tell them how they moved me. And even big famous Jojo Moyes will write back on twitter.
I’m just coming off the morning high of discovering a new reader (I’m posting on Wattpad as I finish the WIP) who has read so carefully that she found a typo NO ONE caught before – the kind where 1) one letter in the middle of a word is missing, and 2) the result is still a word.
I think those are the hardest to find, because the brain automatically supplies the missing letter and moves on.
She left several other comments, all showing she ‘got it.’
I know a little bit of how you feel about your reader. Mind-meld?
It is an honor – and a gift from the digital age – when someone not only reads that way, but lets us know. The effort necessary to do that – a fan letter – used to be almost prohibitive. Now, that connection can be made, and nurtured, with a few strokes at the keyboard.
Thanks for sharing.
Alicia
John, it is always good to discover a kindred spirit. I get letters from kids because teachers make them write those but even so, some of them are heartfelt. But my first non-assignment letter came from a reader of Cricket magazine and it filled me with joy to know I had connected over the shared love of cats. Purring cats, more precisely. More recently, a 6-yr-old friend let me know that even though my book is for babies (it is actually for toddlers), she still liked it very much. Love, love, love the honesty of children.
Writing is discovery. Writing is also to make that human connection across time and space. Feeling very thankful for this writing life.
John-
>What it’s really about is getting jacked in, brain to brain…
For every reader there are identification points, touchstones, totems, little signals that the story you are reading is your story too. Tie-dye tees, bell bottoms, incense and Fairport Convention on vinyl may be it for some.
That’s my era too but my identification points are a little different, though I did have bell bottoms and longish hair.
What is it, though, that causes readers of many generations and backgrounds to identify? Ask me, writing from a center of universal human values can be a powerful touchstone, even for those not of the author’s generation.
The historical mystery novelist Anne Perry regularly shares with me appreciative fan letters and e-mails. Many mention the same thing: the high moral convictions of her characters.
That identification point isn’t dependent on era. It’s timeless.
Great post, John!
While I am unpublished at this point, I have experienced this mind meld thing before.
A couple of years ago, a favorite author of mine offered a 50 page critique at a charity auction. I wanted to win it terribly, but my husband’s job wasn’t secure at that point and so I couldn’t bid. Since the author was a friend I often chatted with on Facebook, I mentioned it to her in passing. She said she’d read mine anyway and to send it to her. I sent the first 50 pages. A few days later she asked for the rest. I sent that. A week or so later she wrote the equivalent of a fan letter to ME, and it was clear she completely understood and loved my characters. My ending had made her cry. She gave me an author blurb to use in my queries to agents, which is fantastic because our readers would overlap.
John, your post touched me. Not because we share a birthday or experience, but because you wrote it with such feeling, such conviction, I felt what you felt. Zing.
“We’re not here to inform, instruct, entertain, any of that. We’re here to touch. And when we touch, we feel it like an electric shock from the top of our heads to the soles of our feet.”
Exactly. :)
Denise (Dee) Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT
Thanks for your article!
One of my earlier books dealt with forgiveness as theme, and breast cancer as plot. Two girlfriends read the earliest version. I bit my nails awaiting their approval, hoping that the theme would be the thing that hooked them; that the plot would make them cry, but the theme would make them look deep within themselves.
One of the women, after finishing the novel, decided (for the first time ever) to perform a breast exam. “I’ve always meant to, but never have,” she explained. She found a lump, immediately went to her doctor, and thankfully discovered it was benign.
What I hadn’t realized during the writing of that book is that some readers really do learn from us. They take what they read as a sort of handbook, if only temporarily.
When I later spoke with my friend, she expressed her gratitude. The ending in the book is not a happy one. For this particular reader, not only did she have a positive outcome, but she took the lesson learned to heart.
By the way, the name of the novel is Epiphany. Something I hope every reader has by the time they’ve finished one of my books.
I was born in the mid-1950s, so your generation is also mine. Only by being “older” could I have written my book. It was amazing to receive private emails from women who had similar experiences but felt unable to share publicly. Those emails are my treasures. They show me my words connected with others. What better confirmation can a writer receive?
Great post. :)
I don’t know that I’ve had that particular moment yet. If I have, I’ve been wholly unaware of it.
when one of my readers sent me a hand-written note. that really touched my heart.
I’ve been thinking about this lately myself, because I’m reading a novel written by a writer I met recently who expressed her appreciation for my work. It appears we both write the kind of novels we like to read, as we like each other’s work! (Mysteries, of course.)
Years ago, when I took an evening course in writing and began playing with short stories, one of the participants – a man – expressed his surprise that I captured the male point of view so well, and said he was certain that if he read anything I’d written anonymously, he’d be able to recognize my writing style. That man’s comments were enough encouragement to get me started on my first novel. (Some male readers do assume that I’m a man, given I use my initials instead of my first name.)
My main characters are of my (and your) generation. I don’t know the ages of my loyal readers, but I strongly suspect they are also of our generation and the experiences we have in common are why my characters appeal so strongly to them.
Good article, John. Thanks for posting.
“We’re not here to inform, instruct, entertain, any of that. We’re here to touch.”
Yes! that need for communion goes deep. But here is something: you don’t know how many hundreds, maybe thousands of readers you have already touched, who put down the book with a satisfied sigh and whisper ‘that is a truth my truth also.’
To totally maul Pope, a successful writer (in your definition of success, not the commercial success) “annihilates time and space”. That is how we, as readers, can relate to writers from the past; not necessarily the ‘have-to-reads’ but the ‘want to reads’. One of my favorites is John Magee’s poem High Flight that begins “Oh I have slipped the surly bonds of earth” and ends with the line “Put out my hand, and touched the face of god.” WOW.
Wish I could have told him how he touched one reader.
So true, Anjali. I couldn’t help but think of President Reagan repeating Magee’s words when the astronauts lost their lives back in the 80s. Now I need to look up the poem. :)
I guess it’s time I piped up and thanked John for posting this. I needed to be reminded of why I write.
It’s been a year since I joined a local writers group and started working with purpose. It was in this little gathering of similarly afflicted souls that I got that agreement, that jolt he’s written so eloquently about. It is surely addicting.
We were given an assignment, and I labored over mine. They wanted a love scene and I gave them one keeping mind that I would have to read it aloud to a group of men and women that I met just once before. Within the bounds of R-rated propriety, I set the room on fire and the feedback was electrifying or they were a pack of easily amused prison escapees. Either way, I got mine.
As Donald Maas pointed out, it’s more than just getting the window dressing right. It’s plucking that true note that resonates with just one reader. Since we’re all not so very different when viewed from a tall tree, there are bound to be other satisfied customers when you get it right. John got it so right.
The first wonderful moment for me was when a student told me she used one of my early nonfiction books for research and found it so helpful.
Probably the most memorable moment, though, was when I produced and directed one of my plays at a local community theatre. Seeing the story come alive on stage was awesome, and I stood in the back of the house and cried.
BTW, I really enjoyed your post. Should have said that first. LOL
In a case of eerie confluence, I’m reading Simon Sinek’s Start with Why. Sounds like you’ve found your why’s best articulation yet. That’s heady stuff.
I’m always able to keep my butt in the chair when I’m in service to something bigger. That’s easier for me to find with non-fiction. (Anonymous’ comment to me in my last post here was my best, recent example of a why served up hot.) But for fiction? I haven’t hit that point yet. Will be delighted if/when I do.
My writer’s group published an anthology last year of work we had done. At the launch I read one of my pieces and I had several people tell me, “That was exactly right.” What a feeling that is!
This is a great article, John. It is often too easy to overlook what is truly important about being an author—getting jacked in—so there is a connection with you and your readers. A similar experience I had recently was when I talked to one of my readers about a short story I wrote. He told me that one scene in the story stood out among the rest and he was having a hell of a time getting it out of his head. He told me that he really enjoyed it and that he wanted me to keep them coming. As an author, that is music to my ears.
Thanks for this post, John! Yes, Forster’s “Only connect” is the driver. My first moment like the one you describe came during a poetry reading. When I read a new poem, one I thought still needed work, I saw a man in the audience, a friend whom I knew was not easily moved, start to cry. Mission accomplished . . .
And Jan, this is so true for me as well: “I’m always able to keep my butt in the chair when I’m in service to something bigger.”