In praise of unheralded accomplishments

Mrs. Heretic and I tried to make good use of our summer over the last few months by taking several hikes along nearby portions of the Appalachian Trail. The A/T is one of the things I most love about not just living in Maryland, but living in America. I don't think patriotism is a feeling. I think it's a kind of commitment you show when you do something for your community. But if there is ever a time I feel intense love for the country I live in, it is probably on the trail. I'm in love with the idea I live in a country with such beautiful places in it, and that we as a society cared enough to create a space within all that beauty for everyone to enjoy.

While walking the trail, we occasionally ran into some through-walkers, the people who were trying to walk the entire 2,100-mile or so trail from Georgia to Maine (or vice-versa). Two from this summer stand out in memory. One I ran into while walking with a friend, not Mrs. Heretic. This walker was actually doing a half through-walk. He started in Harper's Ferry, WV, which is the "psychological halfway point" of the trail, to the end in Maine. (The actual halfway point being some miles into Pennsylvania.) The day I ran into him was his second day on the trail. He was sitting down looking like he was going to die. He'd planned poorly. He had only tuna fish to eat, and his body was obviously out of energy. Fortunately, my friend had packed all kinds of high-energy foods in his pack, even though we were only hiking a little under ten miles. He gave them to the guy. We saw him about an hour later when we stopped along the trail to look around and he caught up to us. He looked like a whole different man.

The other guy who stands out was an extremely chatty and friendly fellow we met during one of our early summer and shorter walks. He asked us if we knew how far it was to the next park, and we stopped to answer, and before we knew it, half and hour had gone by. What I remember about him was how overweight he was. I couldn't believe he had made it from Georgia to nearly the halfway point. Especially because after we turned around on our short walk, we passed him again, shooting the breeze with another couple he'd stopped to talk to. I wondered how he had managed to stay on schedule being so social.

As it's getting on into fall, I'm wondering about those two people. Are they getting close to being done? If they do finish, will anyone be there to witness it? It was a massive undertaking for both, one that required putting life on hold for a long time. I don't know what drove either person to try to do it, but it can't be something either chose lightly.

It's also possible that when both get however far they got, nobody will be there to notice. One of the most significant things either man did in his life, in all likelihood, and of of the most difficult, and at the end, it's possible nobody cared much except them. All that might have waited for them at journey's end was an empty and indifferent parking lot, from where they'd have to figure out how to go clean up, then get themselves and their gear home.

That's what it's like for a lot of writers. There are thousands of people writing stories, and a limited number of readers. There's an especially limited number of good readers. The likely outcome of most stories that get written is that maybe, if you're lucky, a few people tied to you by bonds of love that mean they have to read it when you ask them will have seen it. They'll say a few kinds things, and that will be the end of it.

I've said many times that if I knew for sure nobody would read what I wrote, I'd stop writing. But here I am, years after first putting my thoughts down into words. I've had one book published. I've had five stories published individually. That's about 10% of all I've written, and I was lucky to get that published. I know by now how unlikely it is that anyone will every take much note of what I do, but here I am still doing it. So I clearly don't believe my own message.

The truth I'm slowly coming to accept is this: if something is worth celebrating publicly, it is also worth celebrating even if nobody takes notice. Something worth doing is worth doing for the person doing it. To have labored to walk two thousand miles or write a story or learn to play the gayageum is worthwhile, because it makes the person who does those things better. If I cannot love the thing for itself, if I am not willing to write a story that nobody will read, then I don't deserve to have it celebrated in public, because I did it for the wrong reasons.

These may just be my post-summer, artificially optimistic thoughts after soaking up all that sun and fresh air. By November, maybe I'll be back to thinking it's all foolishness. But this is how the world seems to me this rainy September morning at the end of a month when I almost could not stop writing.