The life of a writer, an artist,
can be isolating. While you’re likely not working in a windowless garret; you are,
nonetheless, working in solitude. Eventually, you send your work out into the
world; and then it’s back to the grindstone, isolated and alone again.
What you’ve sent out into the world
is out there, on its own, “under consideration.” You wish it well, hope it’s
well-received, but your focus and priorities are now on the next project. What
is done is done. Hopefully, what you’ve sent out is accepted, thus finding its
place in the world. And it’s from there the life your project leads will take
it places you’ll never know of—unless word comes back to you.
One of the things I consistently do
is write a short piece for my church’s monthly newsletter. Years ago, I gave a
printout of one of these to a friend who worked in the same real estate office
as the woman I’d written about. A few months later, I learned that this woman
had hit a low spot, questioning whether what she did really mattered. My friend
showed her what I’d written, telling her, “It’s about you.” My friend me that
that little piece of my writing effected a one-eighty in her co-worker’s
outlook on herself and her life. Had I not been told this, I likely would have
totally forgotten that little bit of writing, having let it fall from memory
like the previous newsletter bits before, and most of them since.
John Lennon wrote, “Life is what
happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” Sometimes, while we’re focused
elsewhere, a project we’ve worked on, finished, and sent out into the world is
still out there, working; still not finished. And we may never know.
