A couple days ago I got a question again that I’m starting to get fairly regularly:
“When are you going to write a book?”
The first time I was ever asked seriously about writing a book, I thought I would faint from flattery. I couldn’t imagine a bigger compliment. I probably mumbled something in false self-effacement, then spent the rest of the afternoon daydreaming about what kind of signature would be best for book signings. For me, that simple question was a validation–more than a query, it was an assertion that my talent and my work deserve the honor of being bound and sold in bulk.
The question felt great at first. But eventually something changed. What had sounded like the ultimate “You the man!” started sounding like the knowing inquiry of an accountability partner. As I was asked more and more about writing a book, I came to intensely dread that conversation.
Why? Simple reason: I know I can’t write a book right now, and admitting that is, in the presence of my particular friends and in my particular line of work, a humiliation.
I have friends and coworkers who are my age or younger, who have published multiple books. Just today I saw a Facebook friend announce his 2nd or third published work. My social media feeds could double as newsletters for writing friends, several of whom seem to be on the fast track to the bestseller list. It’s quite honestly difficult to name peers who aren’t either publishing now or getting ready to publish. This issue is a tender one for me, one I have to fight insecurity about almost every day.
I’m glad for these friends. I rejoice in their work and their reach. Their success is a joy. But whatever it is in my friends that has clicked and borne literary fruit, hasn’t clicked in me. When I say I can’t write a book right now, I’m not being facetious or falsely modest. I can’t write a book right now because I know for an objective fact that I have nothing to say worthy of a publisher.
It’s just where I am. I wish I could pivot from this reflection to an argument against the hyper-inflated market of young evangelical authors (there is definitely one to be made). Or, I wish I could justify my own feebleness with some grandiose thoughts on what it means to publish, to have a platform, and why evangelicalism will almost certainly suffer from its not-very-discriminate platform-building culture (I believe it will). All of that is true, and I believe all of it. But that’s not what’s really stopping me from trying to get a book deal. What’s stopping me is the question, “What would I say?”
I don’t have an answer to that question right now. I don’t even know when I will. But I do know that, for me, unless in the future I jettison completely something I believe very strongly about the relationship between people and truth, I won’t ever try to write a book unless I can answer that question.
Contrary to what bibliophiles like me say, there aren’t actually that many good books out there. There are a few, and they are diamonds. But there is an ocean of bad ones. There is not one shred of desire in me to be even a drop of contribution to that ocean. I’d rather stay on the beach altogether (with a good book, of course!).