I’ve spent this week’s meditation thinking about Tribes. Nor so much biological tribes as the tribes we make ourselves. Your own workplace subgroup of like-minded employees would fit this mold I’m forming.

Something I’ve long missed is the self-elected tribe that formed around me in Alaska. These were people delighted in cartoon art and FM radio, where the DJ didn’t talk over the good songs.

I was surprised to find myself in this tribe, as I’d never belonged to so many people before. After all my struggles as a young teen, all I had to do as this still-new adult was produce all the things I liked. And I was in. It was magical. Frightening, to have my (hungover) self name-checked by a stranger, but all I had to do afterward was stand and endure their welcome.

Today, my new book needs a tribe. A tribe who loves memoir, and appreciates what’s at stake for writers of the books enfolding Time and Place.

If you’d like to be an Advance Reader of “Drinking the Waters at the Shores of Hell: True Stories – drop me a line at the Contact.

Do you have your own example of this? Doing something you love, and having it suddenly celebrated?