One of the strange things about publishing a novel is that suddenly strangers will be reading it. That should be obvious, but it isn’t something that had ever occurred to me. The books I had published previously were academic tomes concerning the theory and practice of adult learning, and, while I didn’t know the readers personally, I knew a lot about them. They were my colleagues. My graduate students. My coworkers. They were all around the world and at the same time just down the hall. A number of dear friends read Part of the Solution before it was published. I hope that they were sincere in their appreciation, but they were reading me, not my book. “Only you could have written that scene,” they said. Or “I could hear your voice as I read.”
But now, suddenly, the book was out there, and I had no idea (and worse, no control) over who was reading and what they thought. I’d had a reader in mind as I was writing, a Boomer like me, retired from a career in some kind of intellectual labor, now ensconced in an active life of tending gardens, dining out with friends, donating to good causes, and volunteering at the local food pantry. Left of center. Privileged. Well-meaning. Lucky. But now I had no idea who might or might not be reading. The weirdness of that, and the mental blinders that limited my view of readers, has become clearer the longer my book has been available to the public. I’ve been on the radio talking about the book. I’ve met with one book club and will meet with others. I will be doing a virtual book tour. As more people have access to the book, I have found myself thinking: Who are these folks? What is their connection to Part of the Solution?
Those thoughts, in turn, have led to others: OMG. My book is about a bunch of lovable (to me, at least) 1970’s bohemians who are politically and culturally way to the left, and, in these divisive times, some folks who come across it will hate this book! They will hate ME! I suddenly had images of Proud Boys and MAGA mamas deciding I represented everything they thought was wrong about this country. Yikes! My next thought, though, was: Hang on a minute — Right now it’s you, not them, who is being a walking cliché. You have no idea who these folks are except that they love to read! They go to the trouble, through websites, social media, or bookstores, of looking for books to read. Stop being so judgmental, you entitled, overeducated coastal elitist! Try having a bit of respect. Try being a little curious.
And then I remembered the moment in my life when I really got what novels could do in the way of opening ourselves to the experience of the Other. I was teaching an independent study course in literature with a student at the college where I taught. She was a very religious, Orthodox Jewish woman. I don’t remember how we got on the topic, but she was insisting that the Jewish people had suffered more than any other people in history. I am Jewish as well, and I am all too aware of the unspeakable things that have happened to my people across the centuries. But like many Jews, I believe deeply that the answer to viciousness and inhumanity can only be found through knowledge, empathy, and solidarity with the suffering of others.
It happened that a copy of Toni Morrison’s Beloved was in the pile of books on my desk. I picked it up, handed it to my student, and said, “Here’s this week’s assignment.” The next week, the student walked into my office, put the book back down on my desk, raised her hands in a gesture of surrender, and said, “Got it.”
Maybe, simplification though this may be, that’s what novels do so well. For a moment, and through the written word, my student felt the torture of an iron bit in the mouth, the desperation of a mother who would rather kill a child than let her live enslaved, and I thought at the time that those moments of empathy will have changed my student, just a little bit, but forever. I don’t mean to romanticize. I have no idea if reading Beloved had any lasting impact on my student. I know that there is real hatred in the world and lots of people in this country who truly revel in the suffering of those they hate. But I also believe that many people are good-hearted and that it’s worth the effort to try to see into each other’s hearts. Novels invite us to do that. I am a little scared of the readers who do not match my image of who would be reading my book. I am more than a little chagrined at how easily I went to paranoia. I’m embarrassed at how pompous and self-important I was being in thinking of myself as someone’s target of rage. But I’m also looking forward to possible interactions – respectful ones, I hope, since neither readers or writers need poison emails – because exposure to a different life experience matters and because that’s what novels are for.