“Have you ever written a column about writing a book?” Margaret Kyle asked me the other day.
        No, I haven't. Until now.
        This is, perhaps, a good time to write such a column, because my latest book, The Spirituality of Pets (Northstone, Wood Lake Books), came out just a few weeks ago. It's my 17^th book, by my count – although the National Library in Ottawa may not confirm that figure, because at least two of those I ghost-wrote for other authors.
        The Spirituality of Pets is a gorgeous book, thanks to designers Margaret Kyle and her daughter-in-law Verena Velten. But these comments are much more general.
        Writing a book is not a shortcut to glory. It's more like an exercise in vulnerability.
        First you have to figure out if you really have anything to say. Many people have opinions. Many more have stories. But neither of those is enough. The little bits have to mesh and interlock, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, to create a coherent whole.
        I spent years, in the 1990s, working on what I called A Theology for a New Millennium. But as the year 2000 approached, I realized I did not have a coherent book yet. I had dozens of direction signs, but no map.
        Similarly, I have abandoned four novels in mid-flight because I realized my ticket had no destination.
        So there is, first, the vulnerability of discovering that you have nothing worth printing.

Taking risks
        Second, there's the vulnerability of turning your precious baby over to foster parents to raise. I write the manuscript. Then it goes to an editor and a designer. My editor for Pets was Tim Faller. Years ago, I trained him. Now he's in charge, finding flaws in my logic or my insights, forcing me to clarify them, to supplement them, even to delete them.
        Some authors protest that by the time their manuscript emerges from the production process, it bears little resemblance to their original vision.
        Fortunately, I've been delighted with both Tim and Margaret.
        Finally, there's the vulnerability of exposing your thoughts and your experience, stark naked, to the public.
        Readers and reviewers, almost by definition, have not researched your subject. They may never have bothered thinking about it before. But they now have the right to judge your work. They can reject your point because it doesn't match their preconceptions; they can nitpick the text to oblivion; they can challenge your presentation with evidence that wasn't available or that you chose to ignore…
        And you cannot reply. Because your words, your thoughts, are now locked into the printed page.

Resurrection
        I write, naturally, in the hope of getting affirmation, even adulation.
        But I also have to write with the risk of rejection, of humiliation. Writing a book is, in that sense, like volunteering for crucifixion.
        And if the worst doesn't happen – if the book turns out to be beautiful, the reviews favourable, the readers enthusiastic – it's like Easter morning all over again.