I got my hair cut a couple weeks ago. My barber finished and said my name when we said goodbye—and a guy in the shop overheard, and because my first name’s weird, he nervously asked if I was the same person, the same weirdly named person, who’d published a book recently that he’d enjoyed, he was an English teacher in South Central and would I be interested in visiting his class sometime?
I find these moments magical. Honestly, probably more than anything, they gratify the hours required to write. Thanks to my weird name, it’s happened several times—and granted, not always in a positive fashion. Sometimes it’s awkward. Sometimes somebody didn’t like something I wrote and wants to explain why—and truthfully, that’s interesting, too.
Sidebar: I read an interview once with Rachel Cusk, whom I admire, about her Outline trilogy, and she said, “Essentially, I think all the problems of writing are problems of living. And all the problems of creativity are problems of living. They are all problems which we all share.”
Publishing a book, publishing an article, putting something into the world—it means it’s no longer mine. I don’t decide who reads it, I don’t decide how they read it. And readers make books as much as writers. Books are oceanic, so are people. People bring to a book their memories, feelings, maybe a disagreeable lunch—the book becomes whatever the reader experiences as they read it. But to hear a reader describe the thing, if it’s my thing, is revelatory, often startling. Things I never intended, or thought ancillary, become possessed by more meaning than I ascribed.
I wonder if this happens to painters, to musicians. To emergency room physicians, or animators. I’m sure it happens to chefs, but how about pharmacists at CVS?
A cousin of mine once took the time to explain why she disliked one of my novels. A friend once said she found a novel of mine, which had some dark passages, so persuasive, she was worried about me. A stranger once told my wife that a GQ article of mine held him back from committing suicide. All of this was both incredible and odd—in a good way, though “good” doesn’t really matter here. It’s real life and it’s shared, and in the strange sharing, it’s almost realer than real. There’s a quote attributed to Ram Dass that goes, “We're all just walking each other home.” That’s how I feel about writing sometimes, that maybe it’s one of the more solitary vocations, but once shared, it’s very much not.
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Meditations in an Emergency is a weekly mini-essay from Rosecrans Baldwin about something beautiful. Paying subscribers receive a Sunday supplement with 3+ ideas of things to love, plus a monthly dispatch from the road, for some inbox wanderlust ⛰️
Rosecrans is the author of Everything Now, winner of the California Book Award. His most recent novel, The Last Kid Left, was one of NPR’s Best Books of the Year. Titles mentioned in this newsletter are stored on a Bookshop list, which pays a small commission. For more—books, articles, etc—check out rosecransbaldwin.com