I had just published my first article after having been encouraged to do so by the organizers of a writing course I was taking. I couldn’t wait for the world to discover my brilliant ideas.
I published. Then I waited.
Impatiently, I kept hitting the dashboard refresh button, desperately hoping for approval in the form of a like or a comment on my writing.
After several days of radio silence it dawned on me how pathetic this was. Then I realized that everyone publishing must surely be hoping for someone to engage with them. That’s when I realized I didn’t have to sit around waiting for a guest, I could go visit neighbors in my writing community and start a conversation at their house.
At first, I thought I was doing everybody else a favor by commenting on their work. Like I was making some kind of sacrifice by showing up on their doorstep. But it didn’t take long before I saw how enriching it was to enter into conversations that others had started. Finding a meaningful way to engage with people talking about wildlife photography, venture capital, donkey therapy, and psychology principles embedded in classic literature was pure neuron-expanding joy.
I made a rule for my reading on Substack.
No Silent Appreciation.
That meant if I found something useful, engaging, delightful or inspiring, I’d let the author know.
Some of the people whose writing I commented on reciprocated. The “no silent appreciation rule” transformed my initial ghost town experience into a buzzing morning cafe, and before long I was serving up stories to readers who were becoming regulars.
This post marks 100 weeks in a row of storytelling from my own publication and more than 6,000 comments left on the publications of others. The best thing about it has been breaking a lifetime pattern of anxious withdrawal in favor of communication and connection.
I had set my sights on an epic story for this 100th issue, and after working on it for three days straight, I hit a wall. I’d produced four separate drafts, all of which felt forced and off the mark. Today, Sunday, is my publication deadline, and I had to take a step back and consider what was different.
Why after 100 weeks in a row why was I struggling to share a story?
What I love about the commenting practice is that it requires connecting with life as it is. Life itself is a conversation in progress that is always inviting us to dialogue. Writing is an extension of that conversation, and if we’re aligning with it, the words flow in response.
If I’m stuck with a story to tell, it’s because I’ve rushed past the truth, as though I need to conjure up something bigger than life to find beauty and meaning. But in the end, I’m almost always brought back to the opposite. It’s what’s right in front of me—a memory, an experience, a joy, a point of creative friction that deserves attention.
The truth today is that I woke up at 5 am, just in time to commune where the parting kiss of night gives life to the rise of day.
All three of my children agreed to accompany me to the beach stairs I’ve been climbing several times a week at that hour to heal my sore knees. But today, the forest and birdsong, ocean and seals, my children and their natural joy, was healing something deeper.
I will celebrate my 64th birthday in a few days time, and as my daughter climbed into the car this morning, she had a present for me.
It was a picture of the Lewis family, my parents, my wife, my kids and our dog taken a few weeks ago in our home. My daughter’s partner had made the frame by hand and my daughter carved the design into the frame.
When you take time to comment on someone’s writing, you’re sending a message that they matter. Gifts are a form of commenting. They acknowledge the significance of a loved one or friend.
I owe a great deal to the writing community I’ve connected with over the years as I’ve made the effort to publish consistently. Especially the Write Hearted community, who inspire me daily with their words.
But in the mood of “no silent appreciation” — nothing comes close to the love and support I receive from my family.
I’m in consistent awe of the stories that are right under our nose and the value that comes from paying attention to them.
Today, my family is the story that was waiting to be shared. My daughter’s gift, the comment that made my birthday.
It takes some work to carve a heart into wood by hand. And it takes some stories to leave an indelible mark of beauty on our soul.
May your true stories find you.
Rick, we are are glad you hit writers block on the 3rd draft of the other piece. This essay honoring 100 was so perfect. As was this ending:
“It takes some work to carve a heart into wood by hand. And it takes some stories to leave an indelible mark of beauty on our soul.
May your true stories find you.”
This is as lovely as the heart your daughter carved. Congrats on your 100!! That is a big achievement. This story is wonderful, and I especially smiled at the donkey therapy.