Elijah Wood and the Value of You

    I like quotes. I can waste a good two hours just reading quotes online. There are entire websites dedicated to quotes! You can search for ones on specific topics or said by specific people, and you're all set. Sometimes the internet is stupendous.
    The other day, whilst conducting one of these searches, I needed to find some words regarding the value of human life. I read, and searched again, and read, and searched again, and read, but in the end, I only found two quotes that dealt with the worth of humanity. There were dozens of lines spoken or written by many brilliant people concerning the value of faith, or love, or perseverance, or humor, or hard work, but only two, two which spoke of the intrinsic worth of every human being. This is a problem.
    I have come to the conclusion that most people would say that human beings matter. Unfortunately, I have also come to the conclusion that most people do not live their lives according to that truth. In fact, I think, if you pursued the issue, most people would say that some people matter more than others. They might not say it quite like that, but that is what most of us think. I used to think it too. 

    As a teenager, I believed that some people were very valuable, particularly those I loved or admired, like Mother Teresa or Elijah Wood (whom I fully intended to marry until I was 18), but I never would have thought that their value was nonnegotiable. And I certainly never would have applied that concept to myself or to those I considered unworthy: criminals, jerks, people who wore Birkenstocks, etc. I prescribed to the opinion that value hinged on attributes. Beauty was valuable. Intelligence was valuable. If one was a hard worker, considerate, funny, and well-liked, one had much worth, but the removal of any of those virtues, or the addition of any flaws, resulted in the lessening of one's value.
    I was wrong.
    The truth needs to be said, and I'm going to say it, and you might not agree with me, but I submit that, whether we like it or not, people matter. 
    Every single human being has a value which is inherent, a quintessential worth from which we cannot be severed. Every human being is precious, priceless, in worth. Period. No qualifiers. No quantifiers. No ifs, ands, or buts. People are valuable simply because they are human.
    You may be clever, or pretty, or hilarious, or brave, but you are also valuable. You may be poor, or broken, or alone, but you are also valuable. You may be coarse, or stupid, or cold, or malicious, but, guess what, you are also valuable. It is not because of your qualities; it is one of your qualities. 

Who needs the ring, when I have you?

    Now, you may also be pretty and talented and outrageously wonderful, like Elijah Wood (whom I would still marry if he asked me), but your worth is not reliant upon or even augmented by these things. Pretty people aren't better than ugly people. Smart people are not better than stupid people. Nope. People are people are people, and everyone is worthwhile, and everyone is worth the same.

    Your value is immutable, inalienable, and divine. You were created with it. It is part of you. You matter. You are important.
    Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise, including you. And the next time you start to feel like a hopeless case, or a useless lump, or a waste of space/air, or any other terrible lie you've been told, remember the truth: You are worthwhile, precious, and loved, and nothing anyone says will ever change that.

"We're all human, aren't we? Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving." - J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

"No way to live..."

    Today I received a rejection from the Holy Grail of literary agencies. I'm going to refrain from telling you the name of this literary agency, but if you knew, oh boy, you'd be bummed for me. You might also say, "Well, I mean..., what did you expect?" Because, seriously, they're kind of a big deal. (Yes, I just referenced Anchorman. No, I will not apologize.)

    I've been rejected before. Aspiring authors get used to it. They didn't like the query letter, they didn't like the plot, they didn't like the flow, they hate you, get a life, yada, yada, yada... You have to develop this indomitable attitude. You have to convince yourself that you are talented and kind of a genius, that your story could be paradigm-shifting, that someone, somewhere is going to flip over it and you.
    I suck at all of those things, BUT I've been sticking it out. I've been taking it one agent at a time. I've been reminding myself that the emotional trauma will pay off one day. But today..., my hopes and dreams seemed to crumble before my eyes. My heart evaporated in my chest. My peace is shaken.
    I cried. I'm not much of a crier. I cry at movies and Grey's Anatomy episodes. (Yes, I watch Grey's Anatomy. No, I will not apologize.) But I had to cry today. That's the adequate response when you're questioning everything.
    I cried in front of my mother, who is hurting for me, of course - you know how moms are. And while she tried to comfort me, tried to help, tried to find the right words to say, she asked me this: Do you feel like you have a story that people need to hear?
    "I want to think that I do," I replied tearfully.
    "You know you do," she said.
    I do. I am obsessed, compelled, burdened with stories, with the need to send them out into the world. I think of Victor Hugo and Charles Dickens and J.R.R. Tolkien, and I can't help but feel the need to move the earth as they have. Stories are everything. They teach us, and shape us, and exhort us, and liberate us.
    I'm a storyteller. I've accepted this call. I'm not going to shy away from it simply because such-and-so didn't want me..., well, my story, but trust me, it feels like a rejection of me - and that's okay, as long as I don't let it tear me to shreds. I am a writer. And it is hard. And it is trying. And it is painful. And it is wonderful.
    I leave you with this Sophy Burnham quote, which perfectly sums up my feelings on the subject of storytelling:
    Not long ago, a writer friend, sunk in apathy and despair, came to visit.
    "What is it about writing?" he asked, striking his forehead with the flat of his hand. "Why is it so awful? It's no way to live! Why do we do it?"
    And then he leapt to his feet to walk unhappily around his chair. "Look at writers. I don't know a single writer who doesn't hate his work. Writers hate writing. They're always talking about how hard it is. Artist's don't hate painting. You never hear an artist talking about how much he hates his work. Sculptors don't complain all the time about how hard they find sculpting. But writers...!"
    A few weeks later I had occasion to ask an artist if she agreed. Do artists hate their work? She looked at me amused.
    "You're forgetting something," she said.
    "What?"
    "Writing is so powerful. People rarely look at a painting and weep."