We all want our work to be loved, admired, or even cited. Some authors may write only for this purpose, with only this in mind as they pen the next chapter and the one after that. It’s natural to have an ego and to want that ego fed. I, too, have yearned for exactly that. To receive a compliment means I’ve gotten it “right,” like getting a high mark on a test in school.

 Writers have to put that hunger aside to write well and bravely. The faceless anonymous reader must, for a time, fade from view. We become our own reader to scrutinize our words and confirm that they make sense, lead us somewhere, make us see anew what was there all along.

 Most people won’t read our books. At best, only a handful will. It’s a frustrating thought, but it’s realistic, especially for those in the world of small-press publishing. When the artistic side of writing glides into the business side—crashes would be a better term—our spirits can sag. But we keep going. Writing has us, and won’t let us go.

 And in this tiny group of readers, what if my book were read by someone going through a hard time? Waiting in a hospital lobby for someone to come out of surgery, or dug in at home adjusting to a painful event—a ruptured relationship or being fired from a job? What if for this person my book were a pleasant escape, a relief, a chance to recharge her batteries and face her challenges and strife feeling stronger, more in possession of herself?

Look, she might say reading about my protagonist Edith Sloan (An Open Door, The Hedgerow), if she can survive that, then I can survive this.

Maybe my book provided company for a time, a sense of closeness or friendship. That didn’t matter much to me when I was younger and all I sought were prizes and praise. But now, older, certainly not wiser but much gentler (or so I think), offering kindness is key. Art informs, inspires, and instructs. It can also offer quiet guidance, and perhaps even love.