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The gargantuan rock was smooth for the most part, but hikers chose to walk along the paths that were ribbed and pockmarked. I felt the traction under my feet along these sections as I made my way up without hiking poles. My hike to Utah’s Delicate Arch took place twenty-one years after I launched my writing career. I trekked behind other hikers, watching how they maneuvered themselves over the striations on the surface of the giant stone.
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I suppose the life of a writer is not markedly different from that of a hiker. Both hikers and writers of creative nonfiction navigate, in some sense, the wilderness of an unpaved trail.
At Arches National Park, I was surrounded on all sides by sheer cliffs of Entrada sandstone; I felt a kinship with hikers who struggled uphill on the rock, dragged themselves onward over the gravel beyond, and gingerly walked up a long, narrow ledge. Almost in unison, every hiker gasped in wonder and amazement upon turning the final corner before coming to a standstill in front of the arch. I felt that same disbelief and sense of elation the day I opened the box from Bloomsbury Publishing and held my memoir, my first published book, in my hands.
The trek to book publication is often long and torturous because there really isn’t a rubric to follow, as there is, say, in the world of medicine or engineering. A degree in the fine arts is no guarantee of either publication or authorship, just as lessons in rock climbing inside a shopping mall need not prepare someone for hiking the Half Dome. The only way, almost always, is to get out there and do it: To step onto surfaces trodden by others, get lost, flounder, fall, get up, and make one’s way up.
During that three-mile trek in Utah, I was gnawed by anxiety on my way up. Strangers smiled as they crossed my path. Sometimes, in a difficult section, people even extended a hand so I could haul myself up over a step. I had the same experiences during my journey as a writer, and in almost every instance, someone gave me their time just so I could gain a foothold and climb onto the next plateau in the world of writing.
For the longest time, I didn’t know what sort of writer I wanted to be. When a mentor told me to be patient and that all I must do is to write daily, I remained skeptical, but I did the work. “You will find your voice,” she assured me. “Just keep writing. Write short posts, but write daily.” I struggled to understand the concept itself. What was “voice”? When would I know that my voice had emerged, after all? After decades of writing—and reading fiction and non-fiction, both in English and in translation—I’ve discovered that “voice”, in a metaphorical sense, is an invisible watermark on a passage of prose.
Each of us is a particular kind of writer, and we must adjust our sails depending on our specific talents and our goals. In the world of hiking, that translates to the ability of the hiker to not just handle intimidating terrain but also match that with their own will and endurance. That brings me to another aspect of my writing community—trust in my readers, comprising of my family, my friends, acquaintances, and the outside world.
Right about the time my work for consumer magazines frustrated me, one of my friends, a close reader of my work, wondered aloud about my writing goals. “You’re always writing for other publications, for their bottom line. When are you going to write for yourself?” Her question was unsettling, given my own disillusionment with some editors at national publications.
Over time, I began to seek publications where my words were in harmony with my byline. I began to write regularly for India Currents magazine. Suddenly, I had an audience that looked forward to my monthly features and columns. I got hate mail, too. From that day forward, I refused to write for anyone who would not publish me the way I intended myself to be heard.
In the fall of 2009, I was also looking for a community of writers who would critique my creative nonfiction while I, in turn, got a chance to review their work. I found a group that sustained me at a difficult time in my life—when I was faced with the impending death of my father. When I look back at how much I gained from this writing group, I’m inclined to believe in divine intervention.
I likened their positive spirit to what I observed during my hikes in Utah. Other hikers egged me on the way my writing group always did, telling me I could do it. “You’re almost there!” some said as I huffed and puffed over the rock. I was really not there, it turned out, but I persisted because they believed in me and wanted me to succeed.
Buddhism preaches muditā as a way of being and it describes the vicarious joy derived from delighting in other people’s happiness. My writing friend, Tony, taught it to me, cheering me on with every publication of mine. Another writer, Aggie, taught me generosity. From yet another colleague, Jeanne, I’ve learned to begin every day with gratitude. I never imagined that somewhere in the universe someone’s heart would calve to the resonance of my words. One day, I learned that a stranger many thousands miles away trusted my craftsmanship enough to offer me a book deal.
I was speechless, as on the day I turned the corner at the edge of the world in Utah. Up ahead was the Delicate Arch chiseled by nature in sandstone. Colossal, yet so fragile against the bright blue sky, it left me terrified, dizzy, and so grateful.