Throwaway lines

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Last week, I sent a weird email, addressing you as “Debbie.” Some of you thought it was funny, maybe even a little clever. Some didn’t get it. And some just plain didn’t like it.

I don’t blame you. Poor, harmless Deborah whose actual name was dragged through the mud had to put up with my nonsense, wondering how in the world I could have possibly known all that stuff about her.

I didn’t. I was just making it up. That’s what writers do—we make things up and sometimes get paid for it. Shame on me, though, for thinking so little of such a powerful medium. Liz Gilbert wasn’t wrong when she called art “big magic.” This is real hocus-pocus stuff we’re dealing with, and we ought to take it seriously. Especially in such weird times. When up is down and left is right, we might need a little more magic in our lives. We might need to fight the weirdness all around us with our own brand of weird. What other way could there be?

Isn’t that what a trickster would do?

Speaking of tricks, I once put a throwaway line in a book about a married couple living in Kansas with two kids, a picket fence, and a dog. I did it to illustrate that you can leave an impact anywhere. You don’t have to long to go on some exotic adventure to Africa; you can make a difference wherever you are today. It was a nice thought, but I certainly didn’t mean anything specific by it. The most vanilla American experience I could conceive of was that, so I wrote it.

Writers do this all the time. It’s a way to fill our word counts and entertain the reader with details that are far from factual. They’re just ideas, after all; words to pass the time. Like I said, throwaway lines. But guess what? A year after that book was released, someone emailed me, wondering how I so uncannily described their situation.

She told me that she and her husband were ex-missionaries who had spent over a decade in Africa but were now stateside to raise their kids. She was feeling like her life didn’t much matter at this point and wondered what good she could do in such a setting. Then she read my book. And when she got to the line about Kansas (where she lived) and two kids (which she had) and the picket fence (yep, that too), she cried. It resonated with her, encouraged her; and her response blew me away.

Art can do that. Even careless art.

All that to say, you are always talking to someone. Even when you think you are speaking to yourself, someone is listening. I learned a long time ago that if we are “one in a million” in this world of nearly nine billion, then that means there are nine thousand people out there just like you. Which means if I shout into the darkness, someone will hear me. And at least nine thousand people will likely agree with me. There are fewer better comforts in creative work than the knowledge that someone out there cares.

So, I am grateful for all the responses and remarks and confusions that came from such a silly email. Seriously. I enjoyed them. Please send more (I love reading your replies!).

Oh, and I should say this. All of this rambling is an elaborate way of saying we are taking this week off. No new “issue,” per se (though I certainly gave you a run for your money today, didn’t I?), and no new podcast. We are about halfway through this current season and just started to build up steam. The best is yet to come, I promise.

On a more personal note, this week, my family and I are moving into a new house that many of you helped provide—whether it was through signing up for an upcoming workshop, hiring my team to help write your book, or buying the legacy bundle of my old courses. Perhaps, at some point, you bought one of my books or courses or sent an encouraging word via email.

It all helps, and it all belongs. Thank you.

I wrote once, without fully understanding what I was saying, that “every story of success is a story of community.” It was a throwaway line that I would reencounter many times in life. I’ve seen the truth of that little line reflected back to me over and over in this current season of re-creation and rebuilding. Those of you who are sticking with me for the ride are teaching me so much.

Who knows what’s to come? Maybe we’ll find out together.

Meanwhile (as I lug boxes to and fro amid the climbing Tennessee temperatures), you can tune into the first half of this season on the podcast archive page. Be sure to leave a review, if you haven’t already done so, and shoot me an email letting me know what’s going on in your world:

What throwaway lines have you written that have come back to haunt you?

How have you seen the magic of creative work in your own life?

What weird things has art done in and around you?

Once I’m done unpacking, I’d love to read whatever you want to share.

Best,

Jeff

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