Hey everyone,
A few years ago an 84-year-old man named Peter Maddox moved to the small village of Bibury in Gloucestershire, UK, described by the poet William Morris as “the most beautiful village in England.”
Mr. Maddox, a widower, bought himself a yellow car, not knowing the international sensation he was to become.
A photograph of this village surfaced online, according to this newspaper article, with the caption, “Picture postcard street photobombed by ugly little yellow car.”
If that’s all that had happened, Mr. Maddox could have gone about his business, but it was not to be. Soon, locals were slamming him, telling him his vehicle was an eyesore and affecting tourism numbers. After vandals scrawled “move” on the bonnet and smashed in his windows, he scrapped the car.
Again, the story could have ended here. Thankfully, it didn’t.
Word spread about posh residents of a famous village bullying an 84-year-old man on the basis of the color of his car and people simply weren’t having it.
From all over England, people started arriving in Bibury… in yellow cars.
A hundred cars, which included VW camper vans, a vintage Mini, Ferraris, and a Lamborghini, drove in convoy through the Cotswold village in an act of solidarity and as “a celebration of anything yellow.”
Mr. Maddox was presented with a miniature version of his old car.
I heard this story when it first made news and loved it for so many reasons. It did not surprise me at all that people from all over England would spend time and money to flock to a small village to show support for an old man with a yellow car by flaunting their own yellow cars in the faces of the residents who’d tormented him. British people are among the most generous people I know and will go to great lengths to stand up for values they believe in (but don’t bother trying to tell them that; they’re also uniquely atrocious at accepting anything that might even hint at a compliment). It is this Britain that I fell in love with and the reason I can’t imagine living anywhere else.
But this story also made me thinking of something else.
I don’t know a single writer who hasn’t at one point felt like they have a yellow car they love that everyone around them thinks is an eyesore. I don’t know a single writer who hasn’t felt like people are, for no reason the writer can fathom, attacking the thing they love, not only failing to see its value, but actively hating on it. I don’t know a single writer who hasn’t at some point felt alone and isolated, as though they’re the only yellow car owner in the world.
When you’re surrounded by people who have full-time jobs, think going into business for yourself is too risky, and being a writer who makes a living a pipe dream, then it is easy to forget that there are others like you scattered all over the world who, given the chance, would be happy to show you love, camaraderie, and support.
Most of us have been conditioned to hide the things that are different, weird, or unique about us (our love for yellow cars, if you will), but as long as you keep hiding that thing that makes you quintessentially you, you will never be able to find your true tribe, you will never be able to facilitate the siren call that attracts people from around the country to come to your aid. It is only by accepting those weird, uncommon, supremely vulnerable parts of you and letting them be seen can you allow people who share those same weird characteristics and traits to find you, be part of your community, and bond with you.
I have discovered, over the many years of writing this newsletter, that the stories I tell that people most love and share are also the stories that make the most people unsubscribe. Because I’m not just sharing my work with you, I’m sharing who I am. Some people will love that, some people will loathe it, and some people will not care either way.
The ones who love it? They’re my real tribe. But I have no chance of ever finding, let alone connecting with, them if I don’t reveal who I am.
We all have our own versions of yellow cars that some may consider eyesores.
It’s only when we allow them to “ruin” a picture perfect postcard of a picture perfect village that we discover how loved they really can be.
Cheers,
Natasha