All my life, I’ve wanted to be a writer. In another time, a different generation, I was told, “That’s not a dignified enough profession for a lady.” So I became a legal secretary. It was a good decision that I don’t regret. I made enough money to help support my family, and I loved the life experience. The desire to write, though, never went away.
A few years ago, thinking my time had finally come to write, I started a blog, and recently I started this second blog. I’ve written eight articles for an on-line magazine. I gained a little confidence, but there was still doubt in my head that I could ever write a book. I mean, who am I to think I could really write? I didn’t have the opportunity to go to college. Our local community college won’t even let me take a creative writing course because I don’t have the “prerequisites.” (Interesting when I’m not asking for a degree, just one stinking class.) So who am I to think I can actually do this?
I’ve had a children’s story in my head for many years, so I wrote it down, and someone will be illustrating it for me shortly. So, big deal. It’s a children’s story like I would make up to tell my grandchildren to put them to sleep, right? That doesn’t mean I can really write, does it?
Taking a few deep breaths, I sat down recently to actually write a book. It’s a young adult novel. I was so scared! You would have thought I was facing a firing squad! Gently, I began pressing computer keys. Should I do an outline? Should I just type and see what happens? Who will my characters be? Where will they live? What will the plot be? I had no idea. I just typed.
Amazingly enough, I actually wrote a chapter with some fair characters. I walked away from the computer to wash the dishes. The characters were developing in my mind. Back at the computer, revisions were quickly made. I wrote more. Suddenly, things began to happen to these characters — they were becoming real people, with real ideas, and real problems. Each time I walk away from the computer, more ideas come racing into my head.
Is it really possible I can do this? Me? Can I really write? Maybe, just maybe, this isn’t a pipe dream. Yet there is fear. My dad always wanted a red convertible. He told me one time that if he actually ever got one, it would spoil the dream. He always dreamed big for that reason — like having the first hot dog stand on the moon. Is writing my red convertible or moon dog stand? Or is this something I was really meant to do? Hmmmm! I think I can really do this! So — now what’s the new dream?