Every morning when we go down to the lake for a swim, we walk under these bigleaf maples. I think they’re quite old. There are some ancient Douglas firs and cedars in this small area along the lake that I was told about 30 years was remnant forest left after a big fire in the early 20th century. Bigleaf maples can live to be 300 years or so though apparently they don’t grow much in height after 60 years. One thing I love about them is their green shade on the hottest days. Another thing I love? The trees are hosts to really significant epiphyte communities. Many species of mosses, lichens, ferns, and liverworts live on their branches and bark. In the high canopy, the epiphytes soak up water like sponges, a useful thing during the dry months. They also make it possible for the maples to produce canopy roots, allowing the trees to access water and nutrients from subterranean roots as well as the upper canopy. Below our house, there are a couple of bigleaf maples where western tanagers nest every year. We saw the male a week or so ago and then the female appeared on a little Japanese maple by the greenhouse. I think of the bigleaf maples as generous–in their shade, their biology, their beauty. Some mornings I don’t look up as I walk down to the water. But this morning I’m glad I did.
In the water I was thinking. I’m trying to work out another way to be a writer. Well, not another way but to come to terms with certain limitations. I’m finding it more difficult to participate in the hustle that is so necessary to a successful writing life these days. It’s a very different writing culture from the one I came of age in. I can’t imagine not writing and of course I will continue to do that but I’m not sure I want to do that other thing that is increasingly less welcoming: sending work off to potential publishers. It always causes me anguish, in ways I can’t explain. In the water I was thinking about this because I actually have 2 finished manuscripts but I don’t honestly feel that they are particularly marketable. That wasn’t why I wrote them. As I went from one group of cedars to another, a distance of about 60 metres, I thought of alternatives. And the one that felt the most appealing was simply to write and file the manuscripts away. In a way it’s a huge relief to even think of this as a possible way to conclude the work on something: to file it away. Let it go. Let the old anguish go. My roots have always settled me in earth and maybe now they can also form in the sky.
In the water I was at eye-level with a stray feather, the shed skins of mayflies, a little tip of new fir, riding the surface tension. I was at eye-level with the surface itself, luscent, alive. What was the lake, what was the woman swimming from cedar to cedar, what was the dance of two swallows, feeding and mating, the trees reflected, the sun on its zenith, what was the water, whose face in its mirror as I turned, looking down for a moment, then eased away on my back, looking up.
...Theresa Kishkan 
No no no no no Theresa! Your writing admirers are sending up a loud protest. Yes, it’s harder than ever these days to be a writer, no question. Each of my four books has been a disappointment in terms of reception, and I expect this new one to be no different — not a surprise, because I did and do little marketing. No money in our biz, so many hoops to jump through, the whole issue of running your own marketing campaign … I’ve watched those who are good at it with admiration, but I know it is simply not in me. So I write and hope the fact that the books exist, that they’re on a shelf, is meaningful, that they will matter to someone, to others, in the future. It’s what we do. I hope you won’t allow the shallowness of our present time to silence you. I often say, How is the world a better place if we are silent? Silenced? It is not. You are a beautiful, unique writer whose words matter. Never forget that.
Thank you for such a lovely comment, Beth. I fully intend to keep writing — it’s what I do! But I honestly can’t see myself continuing to publish, for the most part. A few disappointments lately have felt kind of indicative of current trends and climate and I suspect my time has passed. I’ll post here regularly, because I love the thinking out loud of this kind of writing, but I won’t pursue the limited rewards of trying to find publishers for my manuscripts.
I hope you’ll reconsider at some point. We write to be read. Three of my books are with an indie hybrid publisher, which is the nice way to say self-published, because I just couldn’t stand the endless waiting for what they call a legacy publisher. The only downside is that marketing is even harder for that kind of book, although we know publishers don’t do much marketing anyway. There’s a cost, of course, although it’s possible to do it cheaply. But then there’s a book, Theresa. Books last. Work in drawers or on computers does not. At the same time, you could still try publishers. I know it’s depressing and demeaning and discouraging. But it’s what we have to go through to get our words out. And your words are worth it.
You are so generous, Beth. It’s a complicated thing, publishing (or not), and right now it just feels right to stay out of it. Who knows about the future…