It was oddly anticlimactic - receiving the first copies of my book. I’d been peeking through my front window for two weeks, hoping always to see a new box waiting for me on the porch. Then, early this week, while I was outside watering the plants, a UPS van pulled along the curb and the driver walked up the steps with a heavy box in his arms. The driver passed me the books, and I proceeded to chat his ear off in a way that was usually impossible for me.
“I’ll keep an eye out for it,” he said in order to extricate himself and get back to his route.
I placed the box of books on the porch and tugged the hose out back to finish watering the plants. When I returned the box, then carried it inside, then stood over it wondering if I should wait for Bonnie, I discovered my elation upon their arrival had already vanished. I was eager to see the books, but I expected to feel more.
After a message from Bonnie telling me not to wait for her, I set up my camera in the living room to record my unboxing. I hit record, sat in the chair, and carefully cut the tape to free the books.
If you watch the unboxing video, you’ll notice the clever tik-toky cuts. This isn’t because I’m a social media savant, it’s because upon opening the box and holding the books for the first time, I was at a loss for words - unable to manage anything more than grunts, chuckles, and huffs.
I imagined that upon finally holding my book, I would be struck with a remarkable rush of satisfaction in the same way I did upon seeing the finish line of my world walk. But that rush was absent. I was listening for it, waiting for it, but it never came. I was simply looking down at another book.
The book was thoughtfully designed - a semi-gloss title, tactile pages to give you a sense of traveling, and supremely crisp photos in the insert - yet that didn’t stir anything outside of mild admiration.
What I love most about books is the feeling of potential they give. What adventure awaits? What lessons will the author share? What world can I escape to? Right now, I’m looking at a well-worn copy of East of Eden on my bookshelf and recalling what it felt like to settle the Salinas Valley and recal timshel, timshel, timshel - “thou mayest.”
Where was that same wonder upon seeing my book? Maybe I knew the story too well. Compared to the adventure itself, the book was artifice, a facsimile, an ersatz imitation. It was one scene in the movie of my life. I wanted it to hold everything, but of course, that’s impossible.
I always knew it would be that way. Photography taught me the limitations of art long ago. When I discovered the joy of photography towards the middle of my first year of walking, I was hastily dismayed at how poorly a photograph captured the beauty I saw with my own two eyes. Too often, what I thought was an incredible scene in real life couldn’t be ensnared with my camera. Gradually, I realized the camera was only a translator - it would never give you the exact rendering of what you saw, but if you were skilled enough you could capture the essence. And so I embraced the limitations and strove to become a great translator.
Writing holds the same limitations. A book isn’t real life, but if written well enough, a book can capture something true about life. While writing my memoir, and pouring over my journals, I ran into tiny scenes, funny moments, or odd quirks in culture that I wanted to share with the readers, but knew I shouldn’t because they didn’t contribute to the overall growth I was attempting to convey. A book can only do so much, and the primary aim of a book must always be to be enjoyably read. After all, what good is a book if no one reads it?
“It’s only a photograph,” I would tell myself while trying to decide what to leave in and leave out.
I reminded myself of that once more when finally holding the printed copy.
“It’s only a photograph.”
I filmed the unboxing, put the camera back downstairs, then sat on the sofa and began reading. With each turn of the page, the book became more real in the way I had hoped. No, it isn’t the walk in its totality. Savannah wasn’t walking beside me like she was then. We weren’t escaping the mid-day heat beneath the swaying boughs of a towering German pine. But this was my book - and it was a beautiful photograph.
I can’t wait to read your book!
An incredible accomplishment