Sometimes I feel as though I am yelling across an empty canyon. I spend countless hours, thousands of hours of my short life writing stories that a handful of faithful friends read. Obviously I don’t do it for money, this writing alone on days when the sunshine beckons. And it doesn’t seem to matter whether I write joyful stories or hard ones, the needle hovers over the same tepid temperature, give or take a degree or two.

Even my siblings don’t read my work unless it involves them somehow. (Well, to be honest, neither of my siblings are much of a reader other than religious materials.) And at a recent book event, my son confessed he’s only read a couple of my books, the most current one about Scotland being his favorite because he’s a huge fan of football. So why? Why do I consistently answer the call to sit at this keyboard and type what are all too often little read stories?

I am usually at a loss to answer that question myself. But every now and again, I will receive an unexpected correspondence from a reader I don’t know, like the one I received recently about my true crime book A Silence of Mockingbirds:

Ms. Zacharias,
I’m an EMT in Oregon, specifically Washington County, which I’m sure you’re aware is just north of Corvallis. I just finished reading your book, A Silence of Mockingbirds. I grew up here in Oregon, and I’m probably just a year or two older than Karly would have been.
I’ve always had an interest in advocating for vulnerable populations and I have been considering working in a field (medical or elsewhere) where I can actively work to protect children and other victims of violence and abuse. I was recently doing some continuing education work, and one of the trainings I chose to complete was the Oregon Child Abuse Solutions video that introduced me to Karly’s Law. Curious, I went online to learn more about its history, which is where I discovered your book.
I had a hard time getting it; neither the library nor the inter-library loan system had it, and they unfortunately denied my request that they stock the library with a copy. Luckily, I was able to buy one from Powell’s. Reading your book, the experiences of all these people came to life for me and touched me in a way I did not expect. I am heartbroken by Karly’s story, and I don’t have any words for how sorrowful I feel for her and her father or how scared I am for all the children who may also be in Karly’s shoes today despite the measures we as a community have been taking to end child abuse.
Sincerely, 
K.W.

I’ve been at this writing business now for 30 some odd years. My first book was published 28 years ago. The memoir I wrote about my father’s death in Vietnam was published 20 years ago. The book I wrote about Karly was first published 13 years ago. Karly’s death was 20 years ago. Some of my books are hard to find now, as this reader so rightly noted. While some authors have the gift of their works outliving them – Dickens, Bronte Sisters, come to mind – I have known much admired bestselling authors whose works have faded after their deaths. I suspect that will be the case for most who are currently on the NYT bestseller lists, or those of us taking home the awards. One day our family will have to decide whether to toss out those shiny plaques we cherish so much and worked so hard to earn.

The best we can hope for while we are here, writing, creating, thinking, rewriting, is our work will impact a reader like K.W.. That, as C.S. Lewis (another writer whose work we will continue to read) once wrote, perhaps something we write or say or do, will resonate with another human being who will then reach out to us and say, “What? You, too? I thought no one but myself.”

It’s that human connection, that recognition of the dignity and value of another that we strive for, that we must seek in a world that is increasingly becoming less humane. A world full of politicians and war-mongers who daily send out propaganda designed to dehumanize others. Here in America we are currently living under a regime of thousands who declare that God’s will is that only white people should thrive.

To hell or an El Salvador prison for everyone else.

It seems futile to sit here behind this keyboard knowing how small a voice I really have, how little an impact I really have, but shouting across this abyss of dehumanization is all I truly know what to do.

It’s not enough, I know, I know. It will never be enough. But when I get notes like the one I received from K.W. at least I know that someone on the other side of the abyss heard me, and they, too, are compelled to do something good, something to bridge the darkness between us.

As feeble as our voices are, they matter. Use yours.