I'm Glad Someone Read to Me

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@lilk8tob: I wanted to thank you for starting the GSRtM hashtag. I’ve had a rough few weeks- I received a form rejection that for some reason hit me harder than all the others. Usually I’m able to look at my MS and think “Obviously that agent doesn’t know what they are talking about.” But this time, it caused me to look at it through the eyes of those who have rejected it. I no longer liked my story or even cared about the main character. I realized that I was not meant to be a writer and yesterday decided to give writing up. I had a hard time sleeping last night, I felt as if a part of me had died. But what’s the point of writing if no one will ever read it? Today I logged on to Twitter and saw everyone posting about their favorite childhood books. I joined in, and reminiscing about this led me over to my parents’ house to look through my old bookshelves. For over an hour my toddler and I flipped through the cardboard-bound pieces of my childhood, most books held together with tape. When I found Harold and the Purple Crayon, I started to cry. These books made me happy. Writing used to make me happy. I didn’t write to make agents want to represent me or to make some publisher rich. I wrote because of how it made me feel, exactly like these books used to do. Remembering that feeling has given me a new sense of purpose. I’m going to start writing again, for me. Maybe I’ll never see my novel on a bookstore shelf, but I’m going to love it anyway. Thanks again.

@lilk8tob: I wanted to thank you for starting the GSRtM hashtag. I’ve had a rough few weeks- I received a form rejection that for some reason hit me harder than all the others. Usually I’m able to look at my MS and think “Obviously that agent doesn’t know what they are talking about.” But this time, it caused me to look at it through the eyes of those who have rejected it. I no longer liked my story or even cared about the main character. I realized that I was not meant to be a writer and yesterday decided to give writing up. I had a hard time sleeping last night, I felt as if a part of me had died. But what’s the point of writing if no one will ever read it? Today I logged on to Twitter and saw everyone posting about their favorite childhood books. I joined in, and reminiscing about this led me over to my parents’ house to look through my old bookshelves. For over an hour my toddler and I flipped through the cardboard-bound pieces of my childhood, most books held together with tape. When I found Harold and the Purple Crayon, I started to cry. These books made me happy. Writing used to make me happy. I didn’t write to make agents want to represent me or to make some publisher rich. I wrote because of how it made me feel, exactly like these books used to do. Remembering that feeling has given me a new sense of purpose. I’m going to start writing again, for me. Maybe I’ll never see my novel on a bookstore shelf, but I’m going to love it anyway. Thanks again.

Filed under reading to a child Harold and the Purple Crayon Crockett Johnson inspiration

  1. gladsomeonereadtome posted this