My dad would be 92 today. He passed away just before Christmas four years ago. He was a masterful carpenter, and a father who believed in showing his love more than in telling it. “Showing” frequently took the form of building, fixing, and renovating.
Earlier today I was having an online conversation with one of the Unschool subscribers, Terry Freedman, and he mentioned how he likes—at times—to look at his physical books on his shelf, and how that might be “narcissistic.” We were discussing publishing e-books versus physical books. I don’t think it has anything to do with narcissism.
Being February 4th, my dad came to mind, and his work. The above photo was taken after he’d gutted our ageing kitchen, with all its uneven studs and joists; he was making custom cabinets from pine boards. He and I went together to find the perfect boards, and I remember him holding them, feeling edges, noting knots. Here, he’s doing something he often did while mentally working through a project: jotting some calculation or reminder with his carpenter’s pencil. I still have a piece of wood with one such hand-written note.
After that kitchen was complete, with its beautiful stained-golden cabinets, the wood-trimmed edging to the counter tops—oak, no less—the black hand-crafted iron handles on the doors, every detail seen to, I would notice my dad pause at some point in every visit to my house, tea mug in hand, and look. His eyes would go over the whole, slowly, taking pleasure in his work. There’s a healthy type of pride in a job thoughtfully executed. It’s good to acknowledge “I’ve given this my best.”
Recently I published a post about the physical manifestation of rejection—without really thinking about this counterpart. The pleasure in having built a Thing.
I have writing days that make me hungry for physicality, to hold something in my hands at the end of my day. I enjoy a day of painting a room for this reason—to feel tired limbs and to see the change. Maybe this is my tradespeople-background; in spite of the surprisingly physical exhaustion that I often feel at the end of a writing day, it can still feel to be missing this piece.
Years can pass between those moments of opening a box of ten or twenty first-print-run books that show up at my door. It’s been four years for me at this point since the last, and I’m hungry. Some of you have never felt that, and are steadily working towards it… I know! Others, with e-publishing, might never have one of those moments (and I think about, and hope, that perhaps creating a cover, seeing reviews, having a personal email from a reader thanking you for the story might be solid stand-ins for this).
In this age of digital-everything, let your mind ponder what you have actually created when you write, even if it is not yet a book, or ever will be. It is a story. It fits into readers’ minds and hearts, lodges into their gut even.
Then life goes on and your counter looks like its usual mess and the stove needs to be cleaned up again.
But for a moment, stop and think, “I created this.”
Happy birthday, Dad!
With thanks to Terry Freedman for our discussion about e-publishing and print. Check out his newsletter (and this piece on his father)—
What a lovely tribute to your Dad, Alison.
Alison, I love everything about this piece. Thank you for making your Dad real for us. And for reminding us of the importance of making a good thing.