When my son was near a year old I found myself pondering yet another story idea. A unique story. One that reflected the newly found (and comfortable) self of mom and the fun of witnessing childhood again. But I still hesitated. Or stalled. Or pondered my worthiness.
I've always been a writer. Since grade-school. I think somewhere in the brown, torn box in my parent's attic is my first published story. About a school bus, elves, dreamland, and a young girl who realizes real life is sometimes hard. I wrote the story in first grade (and illustrated each page with crayons and pencil). I even entered it in Young Authors.
I journaled at an almost frantic state through the trying years of high school. A move during my sophomore year forced me over the edge into teenage angst and depression. You can tell by reading the thirteen volumes of large spiral notepads of journals defying my parents, viciously slandering my teachers, and sharing my love of various *cool* boys who wouldn't notice me if I danced my then 150 pound frame through the gym naked. Somewhere in that time I also tried my hand at the sappiest, saddest, and even down-right hilarious attempts at poetry and song writing. I think every boy at school had a song named after them. Or maybe something that could be scratched on the bathroom wall.
Anyway, college hit me. I was told all my life that *writers don't make money* so I tried to stay far from it when it came to a career choice. I tried. I think early on I even thought I could hack it as a genetics engineer. (Stop laughing- really- If you look at my college applications it even says so.). That lasted but one week (maybe three) and then I landed on a degree called Scientific and Technical Communication. It was at the same school, involved a handful of writing courses, and somewhere in the literature it said that if I earned this degree I would be able to get a job in business, technology, or even in medicine. This meant I could make money. Even more to the point, I could graduate, move away from my parents (far, far away) and survive on my own. Everything, I was told, a fiction writer would not be able to do. I was sold.
I finished the degree in record time- under four years by 3 months, and headed off to the big city of Chicago (actually a 'burb) to start my career as a technical writer. Well, actually I landed in Grand Rapids, MI for a whole three months doing software testing, but I try to block this out of my memory. The job was great! Really. As I had become a techno geek, gizmo girl- you know, a lab rat in college. I had given up writing unless of course it dealt with writing a paper, thesis, or helping a student in the writing center. Early on, I did hold a staff writing position at the University paper. And yes, I did writer for the News Bureau at one point. And I even helped people with a job at The Writing Center. But notice the trend- no fiction. Even my book a week reading habit was lost to reading classroom text. I think in my just under four year time in college I took one fiction book from the library (and of course returned it). In fact, it was John Grisham's
Pelican Brief if I remember correctly. Anyway, it was bleak times.
Fast forward about 10 years. I've worked continuously as a technical writer. I'm good at what I do. I have been laid off, to only start a new job a whole two days later. I've gained experience writing everything from highly technical system administrator manual sets for large complicated computer based systems and new technology, to the simplest of steps of installing a fan. I've written curriculum, teaching, help systems, marketing, and about some damn cool consumer products. All the while wondering what happened to that fiction writing within.
She peeked out every now and then. I have a hard drive full of journals, short stories, started novels, and notes to prove it. In fact I started a blog once before they were cool (uselesswriter.com... and yes I still own the domain). But, alas, I always got bored. Turned this part of my brain off. Thought it was impossible.
See, in college, when this seed was still near the surface I tried my hand in a creative writing course. It went well. Stories were decent. And one could say I was one of the best in the class. But then again, at an engineering school, what can one expect? Well, I was even confident enough to enter a contest or three. No wins. No honorable mentions later, I tried one last time. Wrote a story so that I could register for the advanced class. The instructor trashed it. He even went so far as to ask me how I was able to pass freshman English. At the same time, he made the recommendation I visit the writing center- while I turned away, took a deep breath to keep the tears from gushing from my eyes- and mumbled I'd worked there for two years. I know the guy was an ass. A pompous one at that. I even know he overstepped his bounds. I am even more aware (now) the guy had a hidden agenda. Was jaded. He was a published poet, of course, and how was I to live up to that?
So, again, the seed was only buried. Fiction writer Bethany, stood hidden in the shadows for a long time. Hidden in hard drive data that she shared with no one. I mean, a few knew of the off hand comments and stories that I typed every now and again. But, I
never had the intention of publishing.
Not until my son was born and I had been working from home for a year with him that the nervous energy, the anxiety, the stirring of
good ideas came back to haunt me. Again, let me remind you- I wrote during that off time. I wrote all right. Some crappy literary knock-offs. Enough *work sucks* commentary to make you gag. And don't forget- woe is me for living dribble. But I found myself sitting at the computer, having just completed a project, with ideas slapping me in my face. And ideas that would allow me to keep my sanity. See, I had been working from home, full-time, as a consultant, in and out of conference calls from the time I awoke until I turned off my phone ringer, WITH a nursing infant the entire time. I was nuts (one could argue still am). After hour upon hour of uncertainty (what if my son started crying, what if Dora didn't occupy him long enough, what was television doing to his brain, when will the husband ever *get* I need an hour to myself, when is he coming home anyway?)- I was in need of time away, escapism. And one could even argue therapy.
I knew how to find it. I started writing. And writing. And well I found my niche. The one I had searched for maybe three years earlier when I started to give a novel idea a go. A pathetic one and stopped before hitting 11,000 words. Mommy Lit had found its calling. Or is it the other way around? Regardless the words were flowing and easily for the most part. I finished the novel. For the first time I had FINISHED a story.
Now I am sitting on almost three completed novels (only 9 months farther along). I write this blog. I had started a serial fiction column (that unfortunately went under when the eZine went on hiatus). I have queried a good 15 agents. AND my novel is in the hands of an editor at Avon (an imprint of
Harper Collins). Yep, the full deal- sitting in her almost slush pile (there is another story about that one, but I'll save it for another time).
Now I admit there has been some downfall to this happy trail. That stay-at-home gig. My hours became limited as I wasn't willing to travel near 300 miles a day, and book 60 hour work weeks. So, I left for cubicle land again. Am I happy? Negotiable. Does it pay the bills? Yes. Do I feel a bit more normal? I get to be worker Bethany and get a break from Mommy Bethany for 8 hours (all right sometimes a little less or more) a day. So, in a weird, selfish sorta way, it helps a bit. Would I rather be concentrating on this new found muse of writing my Mommy Lit? You bet your life.
But something interesting has happened. I have turned a corner. I have found a writing voice. I have found a passion I lost long ago. I found a calling. Technical writing is fine. It pays the bills, but I have finally found the courage to own my writing. Write my fiction under my own name. And even submit to agents, publishers, and other writing venues. What has it gotten me? A chance at getting my book published. Other avenues of writing (see my newest writing commitments at
The Writing Parent: Sticky Notes), and most importantly: inspired.
Inspired to reach for the dream. That one crooked start in the sky that's about to fall.
