When I was a child, around six years old, I learned that my best friend’s father was an author. I knew this because, unlike other fathers, who went off to work in their cars and returned hours later, looking exhausted, Mr. Sachar worked from home. He had an office on the first floor off of the kitchen, and I remember he was very particular that we never go in there — a privacy that only inspired even greater curiosity in me. I had never met a living writer.

Over the years to come, I would meet countless writers on the pages of their books. I met Roald Dahl on the streets outside of Wonka’s factory. I met Louisa May Alcott trudging through snow, among a family of Little Women. I met John Steinbeck in California. I met Tolstoy in deepest Russia. I met Elizabeth Strout in a fictional hamlet in Maine.

Writing is a solo endeavor. But endurance is a team sport. I have learned that I need a robust community of fellow artists in order to survive the self-doubt, fear, and resistance that inevitably surfaces when I tackle deep creative work over a long period of time.

It was only later, after moving to Nashville that I finally admitted (out loud) that I didn’t just want to read great books; I wanted to write them, too. Thankfully, around that same time, Susannah Felts and Katie McDougall were beginning to dream of creating a place in our city where aspiring novelists could connect, learn, and grow together. That idea became the Porch, Nashville’s sole literary non-profit that exists to serve writers of all ages and stages. I experienced the gift of such a sacred place in 2014, when I joined a workshop led by Susannah. On that day, my stapled pages shook in my hands as I allowed others to read the fledgling chapters of a book that later became my debut, Beyond the Point. These days, there are countless apps, Masterclasses, expensive tools, self-help books, and virtual pep talks that claim to guide people through the process of writing a novel. But I can say with full confidence, without the embodied support, encouragement, and cheering faces of those fellow writers — my debut novel would not exist. And neither would any of my future books, either.

Writing is a solo endeavor. But endurance is a team sport. I have learned that I need a robust community of fellow artists in order to survive the self-doubt, fear, and resistance that inevitably surfaces when I tackle deep creative work over a long period of time. The world is constantly in flux, and the attention economy seeks to profit on my inability to focus on anything other than a screen. Thank goodness for The Porch — a place where writers can come together to be human, to share the process of creating art, and to lift one another up through it all. AI will never be able to do that.

These days, it is easy to feel the need to self-protect — hoarding our time, talents, and our resources, for fear that sharing them make no difference. But there has never been a better moment to give financially to The Porch, a place where people can come to work out their thoughts, feelings, dreams, and stories among a supportive community. A world without stories is a world without hope. Who are the writers our future children and grandchildren will meet on the page? An investment in The Porch is an investment in those voices; both now and in the years to come.