Once in a while, you receive a piece of fan mail that makes your day. Makes your week or month. I got one of those endorsements a couple of days ago, a very welcome cheer from the wings. "I'd forgotten what a good book is," it said. It made me smile, I cannot deny it; it lent a buoyancy to my step.
Being in publishing limbo right now, it can be easy to follow the path down to glum meadow.
"It's snowing still," said Eeyore gloomily.
"So it is."
"And freezing."
"Is it?"
"Yes," said Eeyore. "However," he said, brightening up a little, "we haven't had an earthquake lately."
And then some kind soul tells you how great your book is, how they can't wait to read your next one, and, as Piglet says, "Suddenly it's a much better day."
Mark Twain once received a fan letter that began: "Writing this letter is one of the pleasantest duties I have to perform before leaving for 'Hell or Hadleyburg' - which the doctor tells me must be soon now."
It's a comment worthy of Twain himself, but I'd guess he didn't know what to make of it.
I know a writer shouldn't depend on praise, but it would be dishonest to say it doesn't help. We're only human after all. Once you get over it, you'll be trudging through the mud again, brooding on the face of the uncreated flux, as a bird on a dark sea. (Lawrence)
Maybe Lawrence was suffering from a case of Eoyore-itis. and a kind word from a fan might have brought him out of it. Or maybe he was just being what the writer tends to be, one of God's more broody and insecure creatures.
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