I ’m writing this on the second anniversary of one of the best nights of my life. Many of you know about that night because, bless your sweet souls, you were there. If you weren’t, please picture this: me, a 57-year-old debut novelist, on the eve of my first-ever book tour, scared stiff, head spinning from the unanticipated national and international attention my novel was already receiving. The publishing world felt big and scary, and, quite frankly, I wasn’t so sure it was for me. That is, until that magical night when my Crested Butte community showed up for my local book release party at the Center for the Arts, complete with hugs, toasts, flowers, cake, and (gulp) that unforgettable standing ovation. Damn, I love you people. You bolstered me beyond measure. I headed out on tour the next morning, reminded that my novel’s popularity was, in fact, dream-come-true stuff and that my village had my back. Big and scary be damned —my peeps were telling me to hop on board this crazy train and enjoy the ride. This made all the difference. Thank you, my friends.
Writing and releasing a book is often likened to birthing a child and putting that precious creation into the world. I have done both — one book, two children — and I will say that, while the comparison falls short in many ways (Anything remotely as important as my kids? Never.), I do get the comparison. Both endeavors were born of love and the best of me. Both called for abundant devotion and vulnerability. Both took a village. Both eventually grew into lives of their own, requiring me, ready or not, to show up on their terms. Both have deeply enriched my life.
If you haven’t seen much of me since that magical night at the Center, it’s because Go as a River and I have never really stopped book touring, logging more than 200 author events in a dozen states and 11 countries to date.
It has been an honor to so broadly share my “love song to Colorado,” as one reviewer kindly labeled my novel. I often find myself giving book talks in places drastically different from here — Paris, Stockholm, London, Munich, Miami, LA, to name a few; or small French villages or Midwest or Gulf Coast towns — emoting to audiences my love for the mountains and valleys of our spectacular speck of the world, resurrecting the erased town of Iola, celebrating my Colorado ancestors, the Gunnison River, our exquisite Western Slope peaches. I love watching people’s eyes dance as they imagine this rugged, faraway place we locals are lucky to call home. I love seeing heads nod at the novel’s themes of grief, and loss, and resilience, confirming that people everywhere undoubtedly share these struggles. And I love the magical reciprocity when readers are moved to share with me their own stories about their homeland or heartbreak.
These moments of human connection have reminded me why I write. It’s because stories matter. Stories nurture empathy and compassion, bridge cultural and political divides, ignite the imagination, and connect human hearts.
I cherish the countless times a reader has come to me to place a hand to their heart and so earnestly say, “Your book.”
This is the real dream come true. The publishing world (still a bit scary) has its own standard measurements of a book’s success, sure. But, for me, the true measure is how many hearts my novel has touched. One of the greatest honors of my life is knowing that it has touched so many, especially in these complex times.
Engaging with my readers over the past two years has been the much-needed antidote to the overwhelm. They’ve kept me going, and I carry hundreds of them inside of me now — the Yorkshire grandmother who timidly raised her hand from the back row to say she had changed the last line of her will to read “go as a river” as a final message to her children; the Utah woman who held my hand while saying my book gave her the courage to finally reveal to her family her deepest secret of a baby she had given up as a teen in the 1950s; the lovely indigenous family seated in the entire front row in Salida, who told me about their uncle who had lived near Iola and thanked me for including the character of Wilson Moon; the letter from a South Korean reader chronicling his ancestors’ sorrow when their village was evacuated and drowned for the creation of a reservoir; the elderly French couple who had me sign a stack of books for all of their grandchildren who would open the gifts together on Christmas morning; the Ukrainian publisher’s letter asking to translate my book so that she may offer a story of strength and resilience to her people in this tragic time of war; my dear friend’s beautiful mom who came to my bookshop event in Grand Junction to celebrate with me just before she unexpectedly passed away; the generational peach farmers and the many former residents and visitors to the land that now lies beneath Blue Mesa who have reached out to share their memories.
The list goes on and on. As you can imagine, I cry a lot. I am so incredibly blessed to experience this level of what author Paul Auster calls “literary intimacy.” Regardless of how many copies a book might sell, Auster says, what really matters is one reader at a time. When a reader invites a writer’s most private thoughts into their own private space, it connects two strangers in a uniquely intimate way. One. One. One, he says. I love this.
I poured my deepest self into writing Go as a River for more than 13 years, not knowing if it would reach even one reader. Astonishingly, nearly a million readers around the world have read my book — each one of these strangers inviting my very private creation into their own private lives. One. One. One.
Beautiful. That said, I’m also so glad when I’m able to step away from it all and come home to the valley, where this celebrity author thing falls away, and I’m again just a Buttian like any other Buttian. Very similar to many of you, I’ve waited tables at the Artichoke, bussed at Donita’s, dish dived at Soupcon, catered for Back Country Gourmet, cleaned rooms at the Cristiana, chased children at Stepping Stones, tagged marmots at RMBL, hammered nails, raised kids, volunteered, given and received lots of local love. Here at home, I’m just the same Shelley that most of you have known for the past 35 years. Here at home, I’m surrounded by the bold, determined, creative, courageous, generous humans that make being an international bestselling author seem, you know, nice and all, but not all that out of line with the remarkable things we Gunni Valley folk tend to do. Let it be said: there are a whole lot of hard-working, talented people in this valley who also deserve a standing ovation. Luckily, we’re also really good at spreading the love.
So, I’ll end this little two-year reflection where it began: by thanking my beloved community. According to my buddies and booksellers extraordinaire at Townie Books, local readers have bought just shy of a bazillion copies of my novel. Thank you. To every one of you who has played a role in this dream: thank you.