Allow me to introduce you to the cover of my upcoming book. I’m smitten.
One of my favorite movie moments happens in the movie Once. A street musician, played by Glen Hansard, scraps together enough money for a studio recording session. He gathers other street musicians as his band and heads in to record an album. While the hodgepodge crew warms up, the studio’s soundboard technician is clearly distracted on his phone, a little annoyed and more than a little skeptical.
Only a few bars into the first song, however, recognition wells up in the body of the technician. A look of pleasant surprise spreads across his face. He sits up straight, gets present, and begins altering the buttons on the sound board, ready to work. He’s in. Ok, his body says silently, Here we go. These folks can play. This all passes in the briefest of moments, but it brings me to tears every time.
It took publishing a few books to take myself seriously as a writer. I write for myself to process and learn. I write to heal and unfold. I write the books I wish existed. That is enough, and yet I want my work to matter. I want to be taken seriously. There is nothing like the feeling of validation when other people recognize the worth of your work, of your art.