Category: Sort of Memoir

Keep Writing.

I have a confession: I sometimes get discouraged with this writing quest.  The epic battle for me commenced some seven years ago when I finally sat down with my weapons: computer, paper, pens; and a notebook to scribble writing-related-to-do lists, ideas for stories, and sometimes a part of my in-progress manuscript. (Oh, how I love thee Staples, supplier of writing essentials!) I had decided that was it: I was going to commit to writing.

In my early twenties and early thirties, I picked up writing a few times and then quickly threw it aside at various points in my life foregoing the writing adventure because it seemed impossibly difficult with a zero chance of success. I did not have a Journalism Degree. Neither had I majored in English Literature. Those were the people who wrote books: Not Administrative Assistants.  So I focused my aspirations on my full time job and with making time for family and friends.

By my late thirties multiple personal struggles had battered me but did not break me: changing jobs multiple times, my father’s death from lung cancer, and my brother’s accident that left him paralyzed transformed my outlook on life and made me realize whatever you want to do – do it now. Tomorrow is always the unknown.

After that, I diligently plopped my butt in my chair in front of my computer and within a year I produced a manuscript. I sent the manuscript to Literary Agents and some Publishers. They all rejected it. Then I thought perhaps I needed some help and recruited an Editor.

I thought I was on to something. I thought my stuff was funny and brilliant. My husband never finished reading the draft copy of the manuscript I gave him.  That should have been a clue. And what did the Editor say about my version of the next Time Travelling Best Seller? Well, it was far from being a Best Seller with more comments and red through the Word Document than I care to mention in this blog post.

What little ego I had, was bruised. (I swing wildly between 5% of the time thinking I’m the next J.K. Rowling, to the other 95% of the time wondering: What the heck am I doing?) Discouraged, I stepped back again. I spent some time licking my wounds and feeling sorry for myself. But oddly enough, I never stopped writing.

Then, I began writing short stories, accumulating a few, and then thought about creating a manuscript based on the stories that I’d created. I put a collection of short stories together and once it was complete, I went through the time-consuming process of researching Publishers that might consider it. I tailored each package based on the submission guidelines, shipped off the packages, chewed my fingernails, and waited. My second attempt to be published with a Publisher and I was rejected. Repeatedly.

BUT. There’s always a BUT. One Publisher sent me a hand-written rejection and the part that I (perhaps naively) focused on in the letter was this:

“But I would encourage you to keep working on this, and to keep showing it to other publishers.”

I received his letter around Christmas in 2014. When I read that part of the rejection, I danced around the dining room table. I’ve never been sure if my writing is good or not. And even today, doubts still linger. However, from the Editor’s hand-written few words on that note, I decided I would pick the strongest story in 1500 Words or Less: A Collection of Short Stories and send it off to a neutral third party (the Editor I had used to review my first manuscript was a friend) to get an honest opinion of my work. I paid for the review, critique, and revisions that came with it.

When I received the detailed write-up from this neutral third party I noticed she pointed out flaws in the story: incorrectly chosen words, punctuation errors, and she provided recommendations on how to improve the story. Overall though, she loved it, and thought I was a good writer.

The validation from the Editor provided some confirmation that I should continue with my writing. I would love to say that 1500 Words or Less was published by a big name Publisher. But that would be a lie. And above all else, I pride myself on telling the truth.

After more than a year of submissions, I decided to self-publish 1500 Words or Less. I would like to say my self-publishing endeavour became an overnight success and I became a New York Times Best Selling Author. But that would be the Fiction Writer in me that wrote that line in this blog post.

What have I accomplished in my quest to write? I’ve written MANY short stories, some better than others, and some of those tales even found homes in Literary Journals. I’ve created two different blogs with one that ran from 2016 to 2017 titled, Pushing Boundaries; the second is this one, Tortuous Tales. Then there is the research I’ve had to do on each Publisher, How to Draft Cover Letters, Synopsis and Query Letters. Finally, while my knowledge in this area is very limited: I’ve learned a little on how to market my stories. I’ve self-published three short stories on my own, and the collection of stories titled, 1500 Words or Less.  I’ve learned a lot.

A couple of months ago burnt out and high-strung after facing an onslaught of personal upheaval that lasted for nearly six months (because that’s the way it goes), I placed twenty pieces of paper in a hat. There were ten pieces of paper that said, “QUIT” and another ten that said, “KEEP WRITING”.  I know this next part sounds ridiculous. But I took the hat and shook the pieces of paper around. While I was doing this, I was emotionally distraught with anger and sadness at finally slamming the door on my impossible dream.  With twitching fingers, I grabbed the piece of paper and opened it to crinkled words expecting to see the word: QUIT.

But that’s not what it said. I breathed a sigh of relief when the Universe said, “KEEP WRITING”.

I know the Universe hasn’t decided that I’m a super-talented writer weaving magical words together that will reshape borders and save lives.  But maybe the Universe knows what I might have already known before I reached in and grabbed that piece of paper: that for me quitting is no longer an option. My life has already been rewritten, and I must KEEP WRITING.

I kept that rejection letter from the Publisher from 2014. Occasionally I’ll pull it out and read the words again. I also kept all the other template rejections as well as the ones that said, we enjoyed/were impressed by your writing. The template rejections remind me of how hard I’ve already worked, and how much time I’ve already committed to this endeavour. On other days when I doubt myself, I’ll find and read again the personally written rejections where the Editor ultimately rejected the story, but thought my writing was still good.

I also kept that piece of paper that said, “Keep Writing.” It’s taped on a wall next to my computer. It serves as a reminder that I had one day where I thought of giving it up and how unhappy that thought made me feel.

It also encourages me to always: keep writing.

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Ellis Island, 1938: He’s A Seventeen-Year-Old Man

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When my husband and I visited Ellis Island last November, I found something I wasn’t looking for there.

What I was looking for, was the first time my great-grandparents arrived and settled in the United States from Greece. My grandfather I knew was born in 1921 in the United States Midwest, and I knew he had several siblings who were most likely older than he was, and I made a feeble attempt to go back twenty years. I figured it wouldn’t be that hard – I would simply go back and search the early 1900’s and late 1800’s for their surname. My rational was this: the last name is fairly unique so it couldn’t be that hard to figure out the first names of my great-grandparents.

But there were MANY people listed with the same surname. And as I had no idea what my great-grandparent’s first names were, it made the task even more difficult. Frustrated, I decided simply to search the passenger lists for my grandfather’s name. My thinking was this: If they travelled back and forth and crossed at Ellis Island as a family and my grandfather was listed as a child with them, perhaps I would know my great-grandmother and great-grandfather’s given names based on association.  (From what I recall, my grandfather’s parents were well off.)

I never found this information. But what appeared before me was incredible. At least, it was to me. His name appeared on a list of passengers in June 1938 with his date of birth and the State he was born in. (It’s frustrating that I know so little of my grandfather’s life, in particular, because he lived next door to us for the first ten years of my life.) But I remember clearly his date of birth and that he was born in the Midwest.

My grandfather was a seventeen-year-old boy. As I sat at the computer and blinked at the screen, I mumbled to my husband, “That’s weird, because I know he fought for Greece in WWII.” It hadn’t occurred to me that even though my grandfather was born in the United States, he might have visited Greece now and again.

As I sat there, I had a vision of my grandfather in 1938: He was a young man with hair slicked back, holding a cigarette between his fingers, (my grandfather was a chain smoker) and he might have made some jokes with his brother that was travelling with him as they waited with thousands of other passengers at Ellis Island.

My grandpa’s whole life was before him. What did he think about back then? Did he meet my grandmother yet? Did he know the long shadow of war was descending across Europe?  Hitler had already risen to power in Germany in 1933. Did they already hear the deadly knock of machine guns and cannons going off again in countries that had barely recovered from the First Wold War?

Or was it simply a trip to visit his parents and other siblings that were located in the United States? Had he decided to relocate to Greece again? So, this might be a final hurrah, a last trip to drink with friends and family, go to dances, and meet young ladies and see where things might go from there?

I don’t know anything about this time frame in his life and little to nothing in terms of what he lived through in the war. And now, grandpa’s been gone for almost twenty years, and my father’s been dead for nearly ten. One night in my late twenties, when my father was alive, he tried to describe the details of what my grandfather had told him he’d lived through in the camps when he was captured by the Germans. I shut it down hastily.  I didn’t want to hear it. It was too dark, too sad, to be discussed. (No excuse, I know now, but it was the night before my marriage.)

My brother did a speech once when we were in primary school about my grandfather’s experience in WWII.  I know that my grandfather told me he was captured a few times by the Germans and managed to escape each time. What I didn’t know – that my brother told me a few years ago when he was still alive – was that one of the German soldiers released him.

The only other story that lives in my mind is this one: My grandfather said that when he was a prisoner in one of the camps the German soldiers took them out for exercise and would march them around in a circle. There was a woman in the group and she fell down once, and two soldiers helped her up. Then the same woman got to her feet and started walking again, only to collapse a second time. The soldiers once again, helped her to her feet. Walking again in a circle with the other prisoners, she collapsed a third time. This time the soldiers did not help her up. They shot her.

I wish I would have listened better. I wish I would have asked more questions. What I didn’t realize as a child was the finality of life – that when a person leaves, they take those stories with them. And just like dust, the life, the stories, the experience of that person dies with them, and is scattered in the wind as if it never happened.

With Wings, I Am Brave

The ocean wind stretches my hair out. Sea salt air brushes my cheeks with dampness. The feeling is cool against my skin; not a frigid dampness that makes me long to seek warmth by a fireplace or to sink myself into a long hot bath. Instead, it’s a refreshing sensation that washes over me: a glad-to-be-alive enthusiasm.

Arms stretched out beside me, they mimic wings of a plane. I rush forward down the sloping cobblestone path through the same medieval stone gates that Kings and troops passed through for over a thousand years.  Battles were won and lost through these gates; a plan was created in this small port city in secret tunnels not far from this castle to save hundreds of thousands of Allied soldiers in WWII. This small town where water bridges two countries is where history lives.

Here, I am free to be me. Few other tourists have made the trip to see this castle. My arms still stretched out I begin to run left to right, then right to left. Repeat. I am carefree and fearless. It doesn’t bother me what other tourists or companions think of me.

I summon the spirits of the Wright brothers who bravely set to launch the first flight at Kitty Hawk in 1903.  I am Louis Blériot the first man to cross the English Channel in 1909 where an outline of his plane commemorates the achievement not far from here.  I am Amelia Earhart, the first female aviator to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean, and who dared to dream to fly around the world.

I am over thirty years old. And today, I am free.

Who I AM

I am not an enthusiastic gardener who aims for a bronze tan as a badge of honour that I’ve earned, after spending many hours toiling in the sun planting oleanders and roses. I’m allergic to dirt and mulch. My eyes become reddened after simply planting one Annabelle hydrangea. The truth be told, I only garden as much as I do to keep a respectable appearance that I care with my neighbours. Otherwise, I’m quite happy with grass.

I do not care that my dog’s tongue licks are smears on the glass door of the front hallway closet.  I vacuum as often as I do, only because my adorable beast carries soil on his paws and pollen on his coat into our home. Unknowingly, (as if he cares) he then distributes both across the floors and onto our couch. This pollen distribution in our home will give me sneezing fits, runny nose, and burning eyes. And if I manage to avoid a reaction – the poor shaggy beast himself, will chew at his toes after a couple of days, and will begin scratching at 3 AM due to his own pollen/ragweed sensitivities.  This bothers me for two reasons: 1) I love him so much and therefore I hate to see him suffer (especially because I know this – ALLERGIES SUCK!) and 2) because he wakes me from my already limited sleeping slumber.

Yes, that is right. Let me write it free of restraint, as it is the truth: I do not like to clean or garden.  I know of some people who love to do both. Not necessarily both, although I’m sure it’s possible.  But they may like one or the other.  To those people I have this to say, “I raise my glass of champagne to you, in a toast of celebration!” And that is the truth. Because I know that people are all different and enjoy different interests, hobbies, and things. Let us celebrate our differences.

I rarely wear make-up. My clothes are functional. The reason I exercise and wish to lose weight is not tied to my appearance. (Although, I admit, it is nice to wear pants that are not so tight.) Instead, my objective is simple: not to have sweat-soaked armpits after walking one block on a warm summer’s day; and not to be winded climbing two flights of stairs.

Women who invest time in their appearance, I admire. I know it’s hard. That’s why I don’t do it. Women, who take the time to coordinate clothes that don’t clash, and make a snap decision on the perfect shade of lipstick because they just know, are simply AMAZING to me. And I celebrate them too.

I want to return to sweating for a moment. Under the right conditions, I love to sweat! And for this reason, I love to run.  But at the same time, I lack a competitive streak.  My objectives for running are the following:

  • Get outside and enjoy the sunshine while it lasts
  • Sign up for the odd race and say, “Yeah, I did that!”
  • Endorphins, baby. Endorphins.

I can’t tell you what my split time is. Nor can I explain to you what my race pace will be. It doesn’t meet the requirement of, “have a good time.”  Once again those “speedster” runners who can almost keep up with the Flash when they complete a marathon in under 4 hours (Ahem, I’m much slower) I’ll buy you a drink. How FANTASTICALLY DEDICATED AND BRILLIANT you are!  Because I can tell you this: I’ve run a marathon, slowly. It takes a lot of hard work to just get across the finish line. But those other people, who do it quickly – WOW!

I have other loves, and you can guess another one, with this blog post. But I will not list them all here because that’s not the point. I am not the same person I was twenty years ago, when I devoured two whole large pizzas by myself on the couch. I have changed. Transformed. Become someone different.

Everything you read in this blog post about me might be invalid tomorrow. (Or, twenty years from now.)   As “Dr. Who” regenerates and becomes different, I too change, grow, add likes, revisit things that I thought I didn’t enjoy, and become someone different. After all, eighty years (I hope) is a long time to stay the same person.

I had a chance to see my favourite actor who played “Dr. Who” at Comicon a few weeks.  During the Q&A, he said one thing a few times that stayed with me, and it was this: “keep moving forward.”

Yes. Keep moving forward.    

Ode To My Dog

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You wiggled, grunted, and waddled into our lives,

With four big brown bear paws, and silky fur.

You, the newest addition, bounced along our floor.

We greeted you with enthusiastic delight,

With cheers, and hurrah!

We welcomed the baby, in our sight.

 

With your floppy ears,

You stole, and stole, and stole.

Socks, spoons, and a garbage bag or two.

And other things,

That shall not be named in this blog post.

For fear Momma, will blush the most.

 

There were expensive things; those eyeglasses placed on the ledge,

With one wagging finger at Daddy, he did pledge.

Enthusiastically, he said he would protect his stuff.

Because I warned him: puppies do not know the difference between diamonds, or fluff.

But did he heed my words?

Please, draw your own conclusions: teeth marks are in the lenses that resemble roads.

 

As the years passed we aged together,

Between us, more grey hairs than I care to count.

Then there were bumps here, and there,

And some of those lumps were removed.

A sigh of relief, spread across the room,

When we were told fear not, they are not a sign, of impending doom.

 

Long walks together were moments to bond,

Together, in wooded trails, just me and you.

Then we gathered with friends,

There was a buddy for me, and one for you too.

And we all walked together,

Two by two.

 

Winds brought change I did not ask for,

And when the phone rang it brought a message:

Time was up for a person I loved.

I sobbed, and wailed, threw my hands in the air!

There you stood between me and Daddy.

Gazing up, you snuggled close, but were not quite sure what else to do.

 

You were there for me,

With your twirling tail, and tightly tucked in ears,

Snuggling close, and forcing me to tend to you.

Your early wake-up calls never ceased,

And when I opened the door,

You seemed to smile, and say, “feed me!”

 

But you are not perfect, our manipulative beast.

As if you could snap your fingers, you command:

Open the door! Let me in! Let me out!

Feed me! Walk me!

I wish to go to Pet Value NOW!

“And please, pass the cheese,” you always demand.

 

You wake me early,

To my dismay.

Even on weekends,

You do not care.

For I am the servant,

To the dog, we love the most.

 

I complain as if I do not like your demanding ways.

Truth be told, I would not change a thing,

For you are the one, that brightens our days.

And without you in our life, we would have little left to say.

For you are funny, smart, cute, and cuddly.

And you will always be: Mommy and Daddy’s little buddy.

***

I know.

I’m no Poet.

Hey, we all have limitations. But for my fury friend, it felt like he deserved something special.

Mind Maze

“It’s not you.” He announces with the sound of annoyance in his voice mixed in with concern for my well-being.

I don’t say anything. I’m pretending I can’t hear him. The hairdryer buzzes in my ear with a high-pitched rumbling sound as heat burns my scalp. The hot air tosses long strands of brown bits in all directions.

When I’m done, I stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is windswept. Of course, windswept summons a romanticized vision of some breathtaking brunette beauty with silky hair. The beauty’s strands of tresses would be swirling around in all directions as if some fairy godmother placed each piece perfectly in the air; it would be the godmother’s final attempt to win over a passerby who may be doubtful of how utterly gorgeous the woman is.

I glance at myself through the mirror. Perhaps hurricane-swept hair is a better combination of words.  Frizzy, dry, and poufy hair tops my head. It stands tall, but also wide, making it nearly impossible to see my ears. I attempt to push some hair back behind my right ear and the rebellious brown strands instantly bounce out as if they are shouting, YOU WILL NOT CONTROL ME!

No kidding.

I huff at myself. Dark circles form underneath my eyes. It’s quite nice. Now I look like a raccoon that’s having a bad hair day.

I mumble, “I miss the days when I could wash my hair and go. No blow drying. No straightening required.  Just wash my hair, tie back with an elastic, and go!”

“Then don’t do it.” He says.

My eyebrows pull together in confusion.

Well – maybe it’s more annoyance.

I don’t want to go down that road – that road we’ve travelled down on so many mornings. Then again, I need to provide some explanation. Otherwise, I’m just a crazy woman with a scent-phobia.

I stumble on my words. As I begin to say them, I know it’s not going to be enough. But I say the words anyways. “I have to blow dry my hair. It gets the smell of shampoo and conditioner out.”

My eyes shift to the large assortment of products that stand at attention on my counter: the Aloe Vera moisturizer is next to the unscented moisturizer; strawberry perfumed deodorant sits beside the odorless one.  I stare down at the Moroccan oil that I slather through my hair on weekends. The hair product makes my locks a little softer, and smooths out the overwhelming waves that I adorn on my head that’s reminiscent of a 1960 bouffant hairstyle that I wear Monday through Friday.

But the Moroccan oil – it’s scented. So, it rests on the counter. Waiting for the weekend, when I can tip the bottle back, drizzle some on my fingertips, and run it through my hair.

Ahhhh….My brain purrs.

Oh my god. I’m a scent addict!   

My husband rolls his eyes at me and says, “There’s no smell of shampoo in your hair.”

Stubbornly, I counter his argument with an intelligent and well thought through statement of: “Yes, there is.” With my well-articulated response that a five-year-old could have said behind me, I reach below my cabinet and pull out my hair straightener, and set it to 440.

He edges over to me and sticks his nose towards my head and announces, “I can’t smell anything.”

I shift. Then I say, “Well, the hair dryer got rid of most of the scent. But the Flat Iron will get the rest out.”

My husband throws his hands up in the air, grabs his shirt, and begins tugging it over his head.

I do believe I won that argument.

Beep, beep, my Flat Iron chants to me. On its command, I reach down with my right hand and wrap my fingers around the hairstyling instrument, and use my left hand to grab big chunks of hair that I quickly run through the plates of the device. Within seconds, my nose twitches at the familiar whiff of singed hair.

Tired of the routine, tired of worrying about everything, I stare down at the woman I see in the mirror. I wish I could shut up the voice in my head. And it’s just in my head. No one has ever said anything to me at work. But I exaggerate everything. One sneeze, over yonder, four floors down from where I sit, and perspiration will gather around the back of my neck instantly as my breathing becomes more shallow and I wonder, oh no…. Is someone having an allergic attack because of some scent I’m wearing?

I worry about smells: fruit scented deodorant, orange perfumed hand cream, or lavender-laced cosmetics.

But it’s not only scented products. Oh no, my mind has had some fun in taking things to a whole new level. Because once you’ve removed all scents from your life, you only have what’s left. And sometimes what remains is that “wet dog” smell because Fido wanted to be affectionate just before I left to go to work, and brushed up against me and it leaves a lingering reminder that yes, I do own a dog!; or a chemical smell will sometimes ooze from new clothes I purchased when they heat up because of the sun. Then there’s also the worry that my fragrance-free deodorant will fail at work, and then my perfume for the day will be Eau de B.O.

I blink at myself.

Hair is slightly flattened. (Still frizzy, but I found my ears!) No makeup. (Oh lord, I can’t even think about it.) Black pants. Grey shirt. Blue circles under my eyes.

I’m ready for work!

I stare down at the Flat Iron. I flip the power button off, and yank the cord out of the wall. Before I walk away, I bounce my head back into the bathroom where my Flat Iron sits on the counter. I pull it away from everything so that it’s not touching my makeup bag, hairbrush…well, anything.

Because you know, I don’t want to burn the house down.

As I start to walk away, there’s a twitching that begins in my fingertips, and before I know it, I’m spinning around again to check the Flat Iron one more time.

I don’t have a problem.

I’m being careful. This is one of those times you can’t make a mistake. My Flat Iron can touch something like the plastic on my hairbrush causing it to heat up, and it could ignite, and because no one’s upstairs right now, no one will know there’s a fire until it’s too late, and our whole house will be engulfed in fiery red flames.

Yeah.

I’m just being careful.

My fingertips begin to twitch. I spin on my heel. I’m standing at the top of the stairs in my home. I have two choices:

 Option 1: I can go and check the Flat Iron again. But I’m certain I turned the power button off, I remember I pulled the cord out of the wall, and I know it had already started to cool down because I placed my hand on the straightener for several seconds and it was warm – but not hot.

Option 2: I can go downstairs, get my bags, walk out the front door, and get on with my day.

I take a deep breath, and turn around as a voice quietly says, Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..

Then, I begin my descent.

Love is…

Part I

Love is when you’ve been particularly neglectful in trimming your eyebrows and plucking them and the gap between the two eyebrows have unified and become one. Wayward hairs arch forward here and there, as if they are reaching to shake a passerby’s hand.

And somehow, your husband or wife, never seems to notice.

***

Love is when you get an unrelenting flu bug that knocks you flat into you bed and you stay there for hours without the ability to so much as raise your head. (In an annoying deal of a bad hand of the cards of fate, you got the one strain that was not contained in the flu shot you got months earlier.)

When the moment arises when you MUST use the washroom you push the pause button and hold it a little longer because it seems the effort will deplete what remains of your energy. Eventually though you rise, and stammer your way into the bathroom and do your business as quickly as possible as your bed is beckoning you to return to it.  In a swirling world of dizziness, you stumble back towards in the direction of your soft duvet, when your husband bursts into the room carrying in one hand a glass of water, and in the other one a bottle of Gatorade. You hear in rushed words that sound that they are said far away, even though he is close by, that he’s going out to get soup for you and crackers.

Back in your bed finally, he hands you the water and you take a few sips of it, and pops the Gatorade open as well. Once you’re safely snuggled in your bed, he rushes out of the room, turning the light off behind him with his cape flying behind him in his quest to locate soup and crackers.

You roll over on your side and mumble, my hero…

Evelyn, Why I Write

Dear Evelyn,

I want you to know that I heard all those things you said to me. You know, the nights I sat with one finger that hovered above the ENTER key as you whispered in my ear, it’s not good enough. You’re out of your league. What are you doing?

I heard you. And then, despite your never-ending taunts I pushed down on that key, and off my submission went to the literary journal.  As my chest tightened, and my breathing became shallow, I turned around to see if maybe you changed your mind after I submitted the story.  Maybe now that I pushed on that key, you thought it was ok, that I tried this “writing thing.”

Instead as I glimpsed over my shoulder, I saw this: your head bent forward while you placed one hand over your face, and shook your head from right to left, with a signal of, no.

It was a look of utter disappointment.

I gulped.

I sweated.

And then, I waited.

You told me not to say a word to anyone when I first began writing. The fictional people and places that I created in my mind would slowly transform and become real to me on my computer screen. But in the beginning, I was the only one that knew about them.

I built worlds. And I created characters.

For three years, no one knew except for my husband.  I want you to know that it was hard to lie to family and friends who asked me, “What are your plans for the weekend?”

I would casually answer, “Oh, maybe I’ll go to Starbucks and read a book.” But quietly in my mind I would scream, AND WORK ON SOME WRITING PROJECTS!

We both know it was important to me that I get published in a literary journal before I revealed my secret ambitions to anyone. Then one late Sunday night, after returning home after visiting family, I perused my email and saw a response from a literary journal. I scowled at the email.  Clicked on the message, and prepared to be rejected again.

In the background, you laughed at me.

But it wasn’t a rejection.  They were ACCEPTING it. My first online publication with a literary journal called Potluck Magazine, and a short story titled, “Do You See Me?” caused me to throw my hands over my mouth as tears gathered in my eyes, and I let out a scream. A reason finally to dance, I started to spin around in circles in my office as I threw my hands up in the air and did my own amended version of the Macarena.

My husband charged up the stairs believing I was facing another catastrophic moment in my life (I guess a happy scream and a sad one, sounds the same coming from me) and he pushed the door open and said, “What happened?”

I yelled, “They accepted my story!” and continued to do some form of an ostrich dance. My husband cautiously approached me with my arms flailing about, beamed at me, and said, “That’s wonderful,” and he wrapped his arms around me.

You were wrong, Evelyn. When I finally, very slowly, began to tell my family and friends, they were happy for me. They patted me on the back proudly, and offered their congratulations.

But we both know the truth, don’t we?

It was never you.

It was me. 

Me: You can’t write. You’re not good enough. Stop wasting your time. It’s impossibly difficult. Why do you even bother? You’ll never be successful at this, “writing thing.” IT’S A LONG SHOT.

I know all these things are true. But I have rebuttals. Everyone starts somewhere. I’ll keep working on it. If I don’t try, I’ll never know. In my head, there’s a constant battle between the two sides.

Just like me, my writing is a work in progress. Just like running, I’m slow at it, and take my time.

There’s a part of me that knows I should stay in the real world. The problem is the imaginary world is so much damn fun. Creating places and people, that are quirky and weird that do odd things; or sometimes I create fictional characters and situations inspired by my life events. Finally, there are the stories based on my life.

The other problem with giving up on writing – I LOVE IT! It’s given me a voice, an imagination, a life that I always felt was impossible.

I won’t lie to you Evelyn, writing is challenging. The creating is difficult, and creating a cohesive story where you don’t accidentally place a character in France, while they are simultaneously living in New York, requires a keen eye and the ability to critique your own work and laugh at your mistakes. It’s exhausting.

Then there’s the grammar portion. Sometimes this part of it is easy and the words flow like a river. Sometimes it’s as if someone has stolen my dictionary and thesaurus, and I’m stumbling around blindly with my mouth stitched closed.

But I work at it. I struggle through the writes, re-writes, the criticism, the bank account that suffers due to the overwhelming amount of paper I go through, printer cartridges, and general stationary.

Because every now and then, maybe I’ll write something that a reader sees and says, yeah, me too! And sometimes, people will just enjoy my stories about a Hero Mouse. If through my writing, there’s just one person who likes a story, or I connect with them on a personal level because of a common experience, it makes the long hours sitting at my computer tapping away – worth it.

Evelyn – that’s why I write.

I want to thank you for always being there. Because you weren’t the one discouraging me, it was me. But even that voice, that self-doubt, allows me to blossom as a writer. By reviewing my work, I’ll look at it critically and wonder: how can I make that sentence better? How will that be interpreted by readers? Am I communicating what I meant to?  

So maybe my lack of self-confidence can be a good thing – as long as it doesn’t stop me from hitting the send button.

Your friend always,

Penny