When you’re an indie author like me (and maybe you are…what do I know?), you tend to connect with others who are on the same journey you are. They might be a little further down the road, enjoying a bit more success and support than is currently available to you, or they might be a mile or two behind, still sorting through the many hats an indie author has to wear. But the connection is strong because you all want essentially the same thing: readers.
Sure, some want them for the dollar signs they imagine will follow, and others for the pure delight of sharing their passion with excited readers. Others do it for the satisfaction of typing “The End” on a lengthy manuscript. Whatever the case, there is a strong sense of community that flourishes under those conditions…which is rarified air in the divided world we navigate.
Don’t get me wrong, reader. Every time I attend a con or book event where I share the floor with other authors, I know what a diverse set of ideas, political leanings, religions, sexualities, genders, writing styles, and even fashion senses I will share that space with. It’s a potential nightmare. It’s a microcosm of the world.
And yet…
Something about this mad drive we share…our love for the muse and the craft and the learning curve bonds us in a way those differences can’t seem to outshine. I may be shoulder to shoulder with someone who writes fiction I wouldn’t read in a million years, but I respect them. And I learn from them. And we listen to each other. We bond over victories and failures. We are part of a community that very few fully understand.
All the veterans, of course, could ignore that newbies. Talk over them. Roll their eyes at their childlike sense of wonder. The first-timers could thumb their nose at the old guard, convinced they know more because of their research and tech skills. But I rarely see that. I see a motley crew of weirdos and normies, of hobbyists and lifelong obsessives, forming a community around the mysteries of the written word.
Outside that usually warm-hearted bubble, tribe is warring against tribe, each convinced the other is the very definition is evil. It’s easy to read that sentence and think I’m talking about politics. But I’m not. It isn’t just Washington D.C. and their back alley deals and posturing for the cameras. It’s social media. And interoffice squabbles. And church splits. And family members leaving a shared meal in a rage over some imagined (or genuine) slight. It’s all of us being irrevocably human. And selfish. And broken.
I write about such brokenness in a lot of my fiction. I write about hope, too…because if we aren’t holding onto a scrap of that magic, what keeps us moving? I see that tension through the lens of my faith, but regardless of our belief or disbelief, the outcome of allowing tribalism to reign is the same: disaster.
Modernity often emphasizes differences. “Us vs. Them” is the undercurrent of every news cycle, every social media rant, every Thanksgiving argument, and even many school board meetings. Differences have always been with us. Diversity is going nowhere. Yet diversity of thought, once so commonplace we took it for granted, is now an idealogical unicorn. When we consider every difference an offense and take them personally, every disagreement becomes an overly dramatic life and death struggle. It’s so silly. But no one is laughing.
So what do we do?
We start with compassion…and focus on the things that unite us. The “magic” at work in the indie writing community isn’t magic at all. Recognition of our shared destination transcends our diverse origins and paths. I’m not thinking about how the author at the table next to me spends his weekends, who he voted for, his thoughts on the Israel-Hamas conflict, or which sex he’s attracted to. I’m too busy trying to help him avoid my writing and publishing pitfalls and learning about his marketing successes so I can employ them.
The tattooed woman at the end of my row selling children’s books about a biker falcon named Jezebel? She doesn’t care if I go to church or a mosque. She’s not offended by my lack of ink or my terrible puns. She’s more interested in my table setup and how it’s affecting my sales. And I don’t care about the number of piercings she has. I want to hear about how she’s grown her mailing list.
The point is this: if we could focus our will on finding commonality in the beautiful and sometimes messy diversity of thoughts and opinions swirling around us, a lot of what irritates, frustrates, and outright angers us might do less damage to our souls. If we could see diversity (in its myriad forms) as a feature and not a bug, we might get over ourselves long enough to find unlikely friends all around us.
I know, I know. I can hear the arguments now. Someone has convinced you that your vote, argument, religious opinion, sports hero, Ramen shop, or moisturizer preference is the correct choice and anyone who disagrees wants to see you dead. Or something. I understand that temptation. It’s hard to keep those voices out. They’re in every magazine, YouTube channel, movie plot, and political rally. Every influencer is urging you to revolution because the future depends on you. However, I’d like to end this article with a hypothetical situation for you to sleep on.
What if…that crazy opinion you disagree with on one side of the aisle is keeping its equally extreme opposite from pulling us into catastrophe? What if divisions don’t have to tear us apart but create a balance so neither side’s victory might invite chaos? What if we really need all those people who think and live differently than us to keep the world from slipping off its axis? What if we focus on our commonality as messy, lovely, tired, grieving, nerdy, overworked and underpaid people instead of all the things that could push us farther apart?
I love my indie writer friends. Not a single one of them is just like me. And what a blessing that is. I wish the same for you.
