Category: On Writing

From 1st grade to 4th grade I lived in a farmhouse, and nearly every day after school I hopped out of the bus, ran up the long lane, dashed inside for a quick sandwich, then ran back outside as quickly as I could. I crossed the church parking lot that ran alongside the cemetery, slid down the muddy hill through the trees, walked through the pasture with its massive cows mooing their displeasure at me, and set up shop with my fishing pole and tackle box on the banks of the Pequea Creek.

I sat there and sometimes I took a Sugar Creek Gang book with me and sometimes I just stared at my bobber and waited for it to dance. I sat there in the shadows, and when the Amish school next door let out my best friend Daniel joined me. He always came racing down the same path, tumbling through the undergrowth, breathless, hoping he hadn’t missed anything.

“Fish biting?” he asked, grinning. We waited and we fished and when we got bored we skipped stones or waded into the water. We didn’t have watches or cell phones but in those fall days we could tell by the sun when it was dinner time, and we reluctantly pulled ourselves away from the slow-moving water, dragged ourselves up the bank, walked home.

My dad came down with me from time to time, usually after dinner, after work. It was even cooler then, and the fall air smelled of cut hay and sleepy evenings.

On one of those nights my bobber vanished down into the water and my pole bent almost to snapping. I yanked up on the reel and tried to pull that monster in. Eventually I did – it was a massive carp, not much good for eating, but boy that thing was huge. I’d never seen anything like it in that creek before. My dad and I stared at the fish and then we whooped and hollered and danced around.

I guess we had carried our stuff down there in one of those large, white, five-gallon buckets. Well, dad emptied out that bucket, filled it with muddy creek water, and dropped that huge fish into it.

“C’mon,” he said. “We’re showing this one to Grandma.”

So we packed up our stuff and he carried the heavy five-gallon bucket and we walked the quarter of a mile to Grandma’s house, along the road with the narrow shoulder. We got up to her house and showed her the fish. Dad poked it and it writhed around in the bucket like the Loch Ness monster. From there we stopped by the neighbor’s house, because they were outside, too, and we showed them the fish. Finally we walked back by our farmhouse and showed the fish to mom.

Dad was so excited about it, and I was, too. Eventually, when it was almost dark, we walked the long lane and crossed the parking lot and slid down the tree-covered bank, let the fish slip back into the water for some other boy to wrestle with.

* * * * *

I was thinking back on this story tonight and I realized what was special about that whole thing wasn’t the fact that I caught a huge fish. I mean, that was fun, but what made that whole experience different was how excited my dad was for me. He didn’t act upset that I had caught the biggest fish. He didn’t downplay it, tell me he’d seen bigger.

No, he celebrated with me, and then he went to great effort to show off my accomplishment.

And that’s what I was thinking about. I want to do that more. I want to point out my friends’ wonderful achievements and brag on them. I want to celebrate and laugh and dance around when people I know do something special. I want to put my own schedule on hold and carry the weight of their glory.

That’s what I’ve learned from that autumn night, sometime around 1983.

Let’s celebrate with each other more often.

To my friends who are not famous,

Hi, there. I know you’re out there because after I sent out my newsletter yesterday confessing to my struggle with wanting to be famous, some of you emailed me. You wanted to let me know I wasn’t alone. You wondered what the right way forward might be.

I can’t tell you exactly what to do. After all, some of you might BECOME famous soon – how much fun would that be, right? I can’t tell you the perfect proportion of time to spend promoting versus creating. But one thing I want to say is this:

Keep creating. Keep trying. Keep having fun.

I’m talking to you, writer of a small or medium-sized blog, rolling out posts every week that don’t get a ton of comments, likes, or shares. You may not realize it, but your words are rippling out into the world, and they’re affecting people.

I’m talking to you, Pastor of that Tiny Church in the Middle of Nowhere. You’re not worth less than the megachurch pastor in his shiny suit and sparkling smile. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. Bigger church doesn’t equal better church. Keep going.

I’m talking to you, Self-Published Author, Mom of Five, Small Business Woman, Painter, Actor, and every other person who’s doing what they were created to do but might never be famous, might never be publicly adored. I’m talking to all of us. We need to revel in the enjoyment of the simple act of creation. Play. Live our beautiful, hidden lives. We need to go about our days and recognize how fortunate we are, those of us who have the means and the desire and the wherewithal to create.

Keep creating. Keep doing. Keep trying.

Now, there is a bit of difficult news, at least for those of us who have strong desire to be known, to contribute in measurable ways, to leave some kind of exceptional mark. The tough news is this: the world needs most of us to create our creations and focus on our calling even without receiving the adoration of the masses, without ever feeling the thunderous applause of a large crowd.

We’re no less needed, mind you. Even though our calling might be to fewer people, those people will be affected, hearts and minds changed for the better. We need to be okay with that. As Anne Lamott says, we need to be the kind of people who believe that “if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won’t wash them away.”

I shared the following words by Henri Nouwen in my newsletter, but I want to make sure you read them, because sometimes these are the words that keep me going. These words adjust my heart in all the right ways:

“There is much emphasis on notoriety and fame in our society. Our newspapers and television keep giving us the message:  What counts is to be known, praised, and admired, whether you are a writer, an actor, a musician, or a politician.”

“Still, real greatness is often hidden, humble, simple, and unobtrusive.  It is not easy to trust ourselves and our actions without public affirmation.  We must have strong self-confidence combined with deep humility.  Some of the greatest works of art and the most important works of peace were created by people who had no need for the limelight.  They knew that what they were doing was their call, and they did it with great patience, perseverance, and love.”

Henri Nouwen, Bread for the Journey

I don’t think wanting to be famous is always a negative thing, but I have found the pitfalls. Believe me. The main dangers I see, when my desire to become famous turns towards obsession, are these: it leads to strong feelings of jealousy; it leads me to scrap and claw for my own piece of the pie, completely disregarding others; it leads to discouragement when I’m not the one speaking at the conference, when I’m not the one giving the interview, when my books are not the ones flying off the shelves.

So today, let’s you and me, in our relative anonymity, follow our calling “with great patience, perseverance, and love.” Let’s be okay with our current platform, no matter how simple. Let’s encourage each other, help each other. Let’s keep creating.

Remember, whether or not you’re known, praised, or admired, your work is important.

Signed,

Me