A Writer's Thanksgiving

There are so many things to be thankful for this holiday season, starting with my good health, my amazing children and my wonderful husband, but I thought I'd use this space to list the things I'm thankful for as a writer:

• Living in the Time of Books. It looks as though the book is going the way of the vinyl record, although it enjoyed a much longer reign. I don't know how stories will be delivered in the future, but I am thankful that I began my career during the time of books. I love to sit on the floor in front of my bookcase and look at the books I loved when I was young, and the books I read last week, and all the books in between. It's as if I can see my whole life on display. By the same token, I love to look at the stack of books waiting to be read. I keep these books on my nightstand, and every night and every morning, I look at them and wonder what secrets they will reveal to me. It's the best possible kind of anticipation. And then there are my own books -- the ones I've written, the ones that sit on a special shelf in my livingroom. My grandfather was a writer (he published books on the importance of physical education) and my father is a writer (he published books on the importance of wild places), and all our books sit together on the "Nash" shelf. The day I got to slip a book onto that shelf was a great day for me. Watching my shelf real estate grow over the years has been equally satisfying. I believe that the books' physical proximity to each other matters, somehow -- as if there is a special energy generated by the way their covers rub up against each other. Maybe the newer books give hope to the older ones, whose covers are torn and whose pages are yellowing. Maybe the older books cheer on the newer ones, who are still trying to stake their claim in the world. I can't explain it, but I do know that it's not the same with files on a computer. It's just not.
• The Internet. Ironic, isn't it? What may have killed the book is also a boon to storytelling. If I want to know what song was popular in June, 1973, or how an old Singer sewing machine worked or what the floor of the Sistine Chapel looks like, I can find out in a few keystrokes. I can sit at my desk and access the entire world. It's astounding, thrilling and inspiring.
• A Room of My Own. It's pumpkin-colored. It has big windows that look out over the street. It's warm and quiet. I can leave my papers scattered everywhere, and no one will move them except me.
• The Tools of my Trade. I am a girl who has always loved office supplies, and I'm glad to work among reams of blank paper, bright blue paperclips, a stapler that seems to know my will, colored notecards, gel ink pens, a comfortable chair and a big screen computer that, for all its' flaws, is pretty darn reliable at holding all my words in once place.
• Other Writers. The other day, a well-known writer decided against blurbing my newest book. She said she just didn't love it, and the strange thing was that I wasn't upset; on the contrary, I was grateful for her for her honesty and her integrity. I didn't get a blurb, but I retained a friend who understands the soul of a writer. What more could a writer want? That connection is the same reason I enjoy teaching and coaching other writers: it's fun to give that gift of understanding to other people.
• Agents and Editors. Besides what mine personally do for me, I just love that there are people in the world who have devoted their lives to books. The same goes for booksellers. These people all deserve an especially happy place in heaven.
• Readers. A writer needs readers. Otherwise, she's just singing in the shower. I'm grateful for all the people who read my books, and who tell their friends about them, and who ask what I'm writing next.
• Good Ideas. I never seem to run out of good ideas -- at least ideas that I think are worth pursuing. Whether or not I'm delusional is beside the point; it's a huge blessing to constantly have an answer to the quetion, "What are you writing next?"

What are you grateful for in your writing life?