Longing To Be Read

Kathleen M. Rodgers

A young man with curly hair and a round cherub face approaches and thrust a book at me. “Why haven’t you read my book?” he demands. His voice is full of rage, his expression one of disgust and disappointment.

I’ve just climbed out of a car, and I’m preparing to close the door and step up on the curb when he appears out of nowhere. His accusation blindsides me.

Glancing around, I’m filled with fear and anger that he’s confronted me out in the open in some parking lot somewhere. “You wrote a book?” I stammer, wracking my brain, trying to remember him. 

Before he can respond, I bolt upright in bed, realizing I’ve been dreaming. 

His question and the anger on his face leaves me rattled. “Who are you,” I mouth in the dark, careful not to wake my husband as I stumble out of bed to get a drink of water and check on my dogs. Sometimes a sleeping dog all curled up can offer comfort when no one else can. After I pad back to bed, I toss and turn, haunted by this young writer’s question.

The next morning as I let the dogs out and make coffee, I try and make sense of the dream. Later, after analyzing it, I feel an enormous sense of relief that I’m finally admitting what has been building up inside of me for a long time: Guilt. 

Guilt that I’ve bought too many books since the pandemic hit and many of them have gone unread. Books are stacking up around me, overflowing into every room in my house. This normally isn’t an issue, except that many of these latest books I’ve ordered are penned by colleagues and friends. In some cases, I’ve promised to write reviews and post about their books online. Sometimes there’s the occasional books sent as gifts from other authors or the advanced reader copies from publishers and authors seeking endorsements. Offering an endorsement is a huge honor and a responsibility I take seriously. Because these books come with a reading deadline, they usually take top priority if I choose to offer my recommendation. They go to the top of my list. Then there’s the dozen or so books I’m reading for research for my current work in progress. 

So, here’s my confession. Although I’ve been writing professionally for over four decades, not only am I a slow writer, but I am an even slower reader. I’m always trying to juggle reading and writing in the same day, but I don’t multitask well. Someone or something always gets hurt. 

When the pandemic hit, I was preparing to launch my fourth novel. Like so many other authors in the same position, we regrouped and learned new skills and ways to get the word out about our books. I am grateful for every person who offered to help with my book launch. 

Years ago, I coined this saying: “When we elevate others, we elevate ourselves. Let’s all go be elevators.” I’m a big proponent of supporting other authors, of lifting others up, and not just authors I know. But somewhere between launching my fourth novel and trying to support so many fellow authors, my “elevator” came crashing down. My physical and emotional motors burned out. It didn’t happen overnight. 

I’ve been chugging along, lifting others up for years. In between, I promote myself. When you shine the spotlight on someone else, you are recognizing their hard work and efforts and helping spread the word to potential readers. But I’ve been forced to reexamine my motives: If I shine the spotlight on others, am I hoping they’ll return the favor someday? And if they don’t? It’s the expectation that others will read your work or help promote you that can bite you, leave you disappointed. By admitting this hard truth, I am giving it wings, setting it free, so I can be happy again.

Having too many books isn’t a problem but a privilege. I get that. I’m grateful I was able to help so many authors out, even if all I did was buy their books. But here’s where I’ve run into trouble. After months of not being able to write for many reasons, I’m back at work on my fifth novel. I call this process building a book. And now that I’m back writing, I’m overwhelmed with the prospect of facing down another story calling to be told. Characters and scenes spin unwritten in my head, nagging at me to get them down before they spin off into oblivion. When I’m actively writing, I pour my whole self into my project. I often joke that I don’t so much write books as worry them into being. 

I belong to several organizations and communities that bring authors and readers together. In trying to support everyone else, I’ve stretched myself too thin. I’ve felt compelled to share and support, go online and buy books, and now I’m overwhelmed with the prospect trying to read all of these books while bringing my next novel to life. And as much as I love to get lost in a good book, my fear is that if I get lost in someone else’s story, I won’t find my way back to my own story. 

Back to the young man in my dream. I finally figured out who he is. He’s every writer who’s had the courage to sit down and attempt to create a story out of thin air. He’s every person with a dream to write a book with the simple longing to be read.

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Kathleen M. Rodgers is a novelist whose work has appeared in Family Circle Magazine, Military Times, and in several anthologies. A professional writer for more than forty-five years, her novels have garnered many awards and favorable reviews from readers. She’s been featured in USA Today, The Associated Press, and Military Times. The Flying Cutterbucks is her fourth novel and was released June 2020 from Wyatt-MacKenzie. She’s represented by Diane Nine, President of Nine Speakers, Inc. 

Twitter @KathleenMRodger

Find out more about Kathleen here: https://linktr.ee/kathleenmrodgers

THE FLYING CUTTERBUCKS

Decades ago, Trudy, Georgia, and Aunt Star formed a code of silence to protect each other from an abusive man who terrorized their family. One act of solidarity long ago lives with them still. With the election of a president who brags about groping women without their consent, old wounds and deep secrets come alive again, forcing hard truths to be told and even harder truths to be left to the dead.

On the outskirts of Pardon, New Mexico, Trudy returns to her mother, Jewel, to navigate an old house filled with haunting mementos of her father who went missing in action over North Vietnam. As she helps her mother sift through the memories and finally lay her father to rest, Trudy will do her own soul searching to say goodbye to the dead, and find her way along with the other women in her family, and through the next election.

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Category: Contemporary Women Writers, How To and Tips