Some thoughts on moderate success

A few days ago, one of those awful corporate newsletters circulated around the provincial legislative drafting office. You know the sort of thing I’m talking about (or, we can hope, you don’t): the punctual, self-congratulatory and poorly written corporate communication hornswoggle, with meaningless blurbs about Chinese/Jewish/LGBTQ2S+/mental health/ [insert cause or minority group here] awareness month, announcements of awards the organization has bestowed upon itself, and the minutes of the most recent meeting of the inclusion and diversity committee-slash–book  club—along with a desperate-sounding reminder to sign up for lunch-time yoga with the Deputy Attorney General.

But this time, buried in a tired “meet your newest colleague” interview, was the following gem:

The grass is always greener where you water it.

I have since learned that everyone I know has already encountered this sage pronouncement, imparted to them at some time, somewhere, by someone. I’m apparently the last person on earth to hear it.

But I’m a sucker for this sort of TikTok philosophy-not-philosophy, so I deleted the newsletter but saved the sentiment.

In the past 18 months, I’ve had some moderate successes in my writing life. They are the sort of successes that, before I experienced them, seemed important—potentially an end goal. But like most successes, they’ve diminished quickly in significance and stature in the rearview mirror, and my attention inevitably returns to the long stretch of road ahead.

One publishing credit isn’t enough; I need two. One journal isn’t enough; I need more. One longlist, one shortlist, one honourable mention, one podium finish … one of anything no longer satisfies. I press on, seeking recognition, gratification, adulation or something more.

This lust for more is disquieting—sometimes distressing, even mildly disgusting; I don’t normally think of myself as a greedy individual. But I can’t deny the hunger that compels me to revise and polish drafts, seek out submission venues, send words into the ether and then sit on my knuckles to wait.

I present a façade of calm, but internally I am consumed by a gnawing impatience. To others, I am a robotically productive individual: I get up, get the kids off to school, go to work, return home, make dinner, help with homework, tend the garden, take the dog for a walk, throw in a load of laundry, empty the dishwasher, go to bed. When I have a window of time, I toss words onto a page. But really all I’m doing is waiting for that email or phone call or website announcement that confirms the vapidness of the aphorism:

The grass is greener because you watered it.

I’m embarrassed by this ugly aspect of my being. Isn’t it enough just to tell the story with the right voice in the right way? After all, that’s what I would say to my children.

So why is it that my sense of accomplishment is so dependent on outside validation?

Perhaps it’s just basic vanity. But I prefer to believe the answer lies in the title of the activity itself. I don’t tend to think of myself as a writer; I’m a storyteller, and the act of storytelling requires an act of storylistening.

I am largely an introvertive individual, but I am also a deeply social person. Writing is a solitary act, even if we do it in the company of others. Storytelling is a communal activity; it requires the participation of someone else. If no one’s listening, then I’m not telling, I’m just writing.

I believe that many storytellers feel similarly. We are not, typically, over-certain individuals with an inflated sense of our storytelling abilities (although I also believe such storytellers exist, with egos of a size inversely proportional to their storytelling skill). Most of the talented storytellers I know are tentative, unsure of themselves, quick to praise the stories of others and just as quick to criticize their own work. Ultimately, they are social creatures: their desire to tell a story is paired with a deep longing for those stories to be listened to, and to affect the listener in a meaningful way.

It is this desire to share the story that keeps us writing, revising, deleting, redrafting, retelling, regardless of how successful or unsuccessful we view ourselves to be.

Today, I woke to torrential rain. It has been a week of uncharacteristic wet in this thirsty area of the world, where we are under water restrictions from early spring, and where my father sends me regular news updates about which part of the province is currently on fire. But this morning a river of water ran down the drive, and the creek behind the house overflowed its banks.

For the first time in a long while I looked out at the garden and knew without a doubt that I wouldn’t have to water when I came home from work.

In that moment, I also knew why my minor writing successes feel less meaningful as the interval of time between “success” and “right now” grows longer.

The grass is greener because lately I’ve been watering it. But when a garden has experienced a long drought, most of the rain, when it comes, runs across the surface. It doesn’t soak the soil, it doesn’t deeply nourish what you’ve planted in haphazard fashion over the years.

A storyteller can’t afford to say, Oh, good. Someone was listening. A storyteller must always think, What will my listeners want to hear next? A single, isolated writing success is the equivalent of Scattered showers. Light winds from the northeast.

A brief respite, nothing more.

Perhaps, when I’ve had two or three years of steady rain, I will be more confident in the health of my garden.