I remember a time in life, high school specifically, when I knew I wanted to be a writer. No matter what anyone else said or put in my path, I was pointed in one direction and marching forward, be damned the obstacles in my way. I never cared to be a great student. Too much work for an A+ when a B+ or A- left me to do other things.
I remember a national writing contest when I was in AP English. My dreams were coming true. I was going to take something I had written and polish it up and submit it. I would be recognized and maybe someone would help me to become that much of a better writer. I would show everyone who said that I couldn’t do it or that I’d never make a life of it.
For about four months I spent most nights working to clean up one chapter of a book I had already started working on. It wasn’t the first thing I had started but the first that I had dedicated myself to for that length of time and pages.
Night after night. Page after page I went line by line and tried to make sure the story was clear, the dialogue made sense, characters were introduced and growing. Like many first chapters this was the beginning, of the book and my future. I filled out the application, printed off the chapter and reread it one more time for anything major I would need to correct before handing it to my teacher to look over and submit.
Gently placing it all in a manila envelope I handed it off to her with plenty of time in my mind. Time to wait. Time to agonize over what someone else thought of it. First the teacher then the competition. No one had ever read anything I had written before unless it was in secret without my knowledge.
Weeks went by after the deadline then a couple of months. I was nervous at this time. I took the time to approach the teacher to see if she had heard back or if there was a problem.
She told me she never got around to it and therefore never submitted it.
Stunned would be such a low approximation of that moment. I wanted to yell at her after I recovered.
I was crushed. Everyone was right. This writing crap was a waste of time and energy and I would never amount to anything.
In college I took a few writing classes. Poetry and short fiction. I produced some nice pieces in my mind but it was just work for class. I was dead inside.
I’ve been working on my journal/blog for a relatively short time now and it’s always felt good to write. When I produced Agapeopsis it felt better than good. It felt great. I was alive. Resurrected into a new life and opportunities. It’s not the same as before. Then it was a goal to be a full-time writer. Now it will continue to be something I do when I can. A refound love. A worthy sacrifice.
I’ve been writing for myself really all this time. A cleansing of the spirit. But today with my fifth follower, I was glowing. I remember the passion and joy now in knowing someone else was interested in something I had to say. These people CHOSE to follow me. Ok. Four of the five did. I won’t count family. But four people I don’t know somewhere in the world wanted to see what I wrote. Hot damn! I still plan on writing for myself but I have a new drive as well. Not to gain new followers although that would be nice but to give peace and joy to another even if there was only one other.
Thanks to everyone that reads and I would appreciate comments just to know if what I’m writing is even making sense or touching you. That’s better than a follower but you’re welcome to do both. :)
-Santa’s Fallen Angel