I love getting mail, especially book mail—books I ordered from Amazon, literary mags I’m subscribed to, the occasional signed copy from one of my writer friends. Book mail is the best mail, because when you pull that magazine out of the mailbox or slide that book out of its padded envelope, you’re not just holding a stack of paper and ink in your hands—you’re holding an entire world.
(That’s right. I know how to use a metaphor.)
Anyway, I recently got some extra-magical book mail. I got the November/December issue of Cricket magazine—in which my own work appears. Not only is Cricket one of my all-time favorite magazines, it also has a great reputation in children’s literature. And it commissions beautiful, professional artwork for all of its stories. And it pays (not all lit mags do).
Needless to say, I was mildly excited.
After I calmed down (and called all my relatives, posted pics of the magazine all over social media, and framed the story on my wall), I started wondering: Does that feeling ever wear off? As you work your way up the writing ladder, as you have bigger and more frequent successes, do things like this start to feel trivial in comparison? When I imagine wildly successful authors such as Neil Gaiman and Avi—who have been in the business for decades, published multiple bestsellers, and garnered various awards—getting their own books in the mail, I certainly don’t picture them reacting the way I did.
To emerging authors like me, this relatively small success is a big validation. A confidence boost. Proof that someone, somewhere, who knows what the heck they’re doing thinks you’re good enough. And at this stage in my journey, I desperately need that to keep me going.
But there’s something else about this kind of accomplishment, something I think many writers take for granted. Our work is out there. Our baby has left the nest and is making its way in the big, wide world. A little piece of us is floating around libraries, schools, bookstores, and other people’s mailboxes.
It’s a little scary to think about, actually. When this realization struck me—this idea that countless children could be holding this magazine in their hands, right now, reading my work (and possibly hating it)—I shuddered. Then I realized: This is the end goal. This is the ultimate reward. This is why writers do what we do—to share our art, our passion, with the world.
So I hope that, no matter where my writing journey takes me, I won’t take this for granted. I hope I’ll still remember how it felt to see my name in print for the first time. I hope I won’t lose sight of why I’m really doing this: for the readers, and the joy of reading.