One of the first blog posts I wrote for House of Honor Books was about why I write. Nothing has changed since. I’m still breathing, so I’m still writing. I don’t know anything more about it now than I did back then, though a few readers disagree. Editing a manuscript that’s been lying around for years reminded me of my rule to listen to readers. I have found in that old scribbling the same mistakes I now correct for others.
In my defense, when my editor points that out, I admit writers are all guilty of them. Picasso said it took years to learn to draw like a child again. Maybe that’s true about writing too
I was in Baton Rouge yesterday and rediscovered one of the true riches of writing. Why I write and what I consider constitutes writing’s rewards are not synonymous. I would be writing even if every manuscript was banished to the desk drawer forever. But writing is not without its rewards. Not all of those rewards are legal tender in the real world. I digress.
Yesterday a young reader, my best guess has her at twelve, stopped by my table. She loves to read mysteries, so I pointed out that Bayou Moon is about a sheriff looking for a killer rougarou. This is Louisiana remember. The mention of the rougarou made her eyes light up. She picked up the book and read the back cover before excitedly dashing away.
She was back with her mother a few minutes later. Mom bought the book and I signed it for her. She gathered it up and held it like it was some kind of treasure. She and her mom thanked me, and she waved goodbye as they walked away.
A short time later, across the museum grounds, they rode by on one of the golf carts used to shuttle folks around. The young lady was waving at someone. I turned to see who it was. No one was there, so I looked back at her. She pointed my way. She was waving at me.
True riches are hard to come by. I guess that’s why they are considered riches.
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