More than one reason to write a book.


I have a good friend who wants to be a writer.

No, that’s not quite right.

He is a writer.

He has published a novel and a collection of short stories.

He is feverishly researching a new book.

He is dedicated.

He is disciplined.

He diligently writes a certain number of words each day.

Sometimes more.

Sometimes less.

But he writes.

And he is serious about it.

He doesn’t toss at few words against a wall and hope they stick.

He has trained himself to become an accomplished writer, and he’s a fine storyteller.

He attends every writer’s conference he can.

He is a card-carrying member of at least three regional writers organizations.

And he shows up on a regular basis to three critique groups.

He reads his work.

He accepts criticism like a man.

He makes changes and revisions without an argument.

He thinks the ideas and advice will make him a better writer.

And he wants to be a better writer.

I don’t know why I should worry about him, but I do.

He is content to write his books, publish them, and place them on Amazon.

But that’s it.

He’s through.

The book is finished, and he’s done with it.

He had no interest in marketing the book.

He is a complete stranger to social media and wants to keep it that way.

On his tombstone, somebody will be able to carve these words.

No blogs.

No tweets.

No Facebook.

No LinkedIn.

No Google Plus.

And this will be his self-written eulogy: “I wrote because I loved to write, because I had stories to tell, and if no one reads them or hears them, at least they’ve once been told.”

And once may be enough.

He made that decision a long time ago.

He writes books.

He doesn’t sell books.

And if no one else sells them, it doesn’t bother him.

He’ll just sit down and write another one.

To him, it’s the telling of the story, not the selling of the story, that’s important.

He tells them his way.

And he’s happy.

What else to life is there?

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