Turn the page

I’ve been a writer since before I learned how to read. It’s true! Impossible, you say? Well, back in the day before CDs or streaming, I was gifted my very own Fischer-Price phonograph along with a collection of Disney Storybooks to play on it whenever I liked. Without an adult to curl up with and read to me, this was the next best thing. I listened to each one over and over until I eventually memorized every line on each page and exactly when I’d reached the end with the handy reminder, “When you hear the chime, turn the page.”

A original 1970's Fisher-Price phonograph and Disney Storybook collection

With this knowledge in tow, at the grand age of four, I created my very first story. Snippets of Cinderella, a sprinkle of The Aristocats, and a dash of Sleeping Beauty, combined into my scribbled-out tale of a very sleepy kitten who escaped to the forest away from the evil cats who raised her and went on to become Queen Kitty!

I showed my story to anyone who would stop and listen. “How old is she? That’s remarkable!” the listeners would exclaim. My “always supportive” mother would snap back, “She just memorized it!” as if that fact alone didn’t merit some praise.

Although the lack of any encouragement may have stifled my storytelling desire, it somehow never silenced it completely. I dabbled in my diary as I learned my ABCs in kindergarten the following year. I always looked forward to creative writing assignments, and with the encouragement of my fifth grade English teacher I even published my first poem in a local paper.

Yet despite my love of reading and the constant flow of creativity inside countless notebooks, journals, and looseleaf margins, the thought of actually becoming a writer wouldn’t occur to me for decades. Even when I was hired to help cowrite screenplays, songs, and manuscripts, I never really considered myself included in the writer club. Despite the gigs, teachers’ encouragement, and straight As in any class involving storytelling, an upbringing of consistently being shot down when I made any attempts at autonomy made me unable to even consider the idea.

Of course I could write; anyone could, but a writer? Writers were something else entirely, something entirely different from me. Right?

And then one day it happened. I was hiking with a friend who was ranting about the fact that our tiny NH mountain town failed to have any literature in stock at the one independent bookshop. “I mean, it’s New England, that’s where all the writers are from!” she lamented. “I have an idea for a book,” someone said. Who was that? Oh crap, it was me! I told her the idea, and as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I had to actually do it. I was going to write a book!

Well, I did write a book. A messy first attempt for sure, but I did it. I wrote it, edited it, and with stars in my eyes, I sent it out into the world.

And guess what happened?

That’s right…

Nothing!

Of course, it was my first book, what did I expect?

The rejections were more than a little disappointing to be sure, but it was only my first attempt, and I had other ideas, lots of ideas in fact. More ideas than I possibly had time to write them all. So, I wrote another book. And by the time I was done writing my second book, I had learned so much from that experience that I decided to go back and completely rewrite my first book. And it was so much better! So, I took a deep breath and submitted it to all the literary agents on planet Earth. Okay, maybe not all of them, but a couple of hundred for sure.

And you want to know what happened this time?

That’s right, still nothing!

So, I studied, I researched, and I read. I switched genres and wrote something entirely new. I paid for editors. I got beta readers. I edited and reedited and did all the things you’re supposed to do when you really, really, really, want to make this writing thing happen. And once I did all the things you’re supposed to do, I once again sent it out into the world, and I’m sure you don’t even have to guess what happened this time—nothing.

My heart broke. I was out of ideas about how to make it happen. I had done all the things! But except for some suggestions about how I could change all my characters, or my entire plot, and some “this industry is tough, keep going,” advice, I hadn’t even got my foot in the door.

I stopped writing. I couldn’t even read. Each book on the shelf sat staring at me, silently mocking me with the betrayal of its own existence. “We did it, so why can’t you?” they all seemed to sneer.

A year went by, a whole year. It was the longest in my life I had ever gone without writing more than an email. I missed it, sure, but the hurt was too big—too raw. I wasn’t ready to try and fail again. Maybe it was just time to accept that after ten years of trying, and a lifetime of writing, that maybe I actually sucked at this thing I wanted so much. Maybe it was time to give up.

And so, I did. I gave up on the novels, the poems, and the short stories. I took a flying leap away from the fiction world and into this blogging space to tell a whole other type of story. My story. I took a risk. And I hope that through sharing my story of survival and my desire to break free from the awful cycles of my past that maybe I can somehow connect with and inspire others wishing to do the same.

Except my heart is still broken.

I may have heard the chime, and turned the page, but sometimes it seems like more of a death knell. My story didn’t go the way I wanted. When does it ever? And although I’m truly grateful for this blogging journey, what do I do with this mountain of ideas that only grows steeper with each passing day?

I’m not sure.

I wish I could say that I’m healed from the heartbreak and ready to dive headfirst into a fresh new idea with no care for the end result and only my passion for the experience driving me forward. But that would be a lie. I do care. I care if all my efforts are futile. I care if all my time, energy, effort, and creativity are wasted on a pointless endeavor. I care about being a disappointment to myself and to those who continue to believe in me. I care if I fail again and wind up with my heart shattered into fragments. And I care if I’ll be able to heal from that experience yet another time.

But there’s something I care about more.

My biggest worry, the one that nags, and gnaws, and nibbles along the edges of all my anxiety and doubt is regret. Regret is the biggest what-if of all. The one unrelenting care, and the biggest burden to drag about day after day.

Maybe I’ll never “make it.” Maybe none of the books I ever write will be on a shelf, let alone on some best-seller list. But that’s the risk I need to take.

I didn’t stop believing in my worthiness even when my own mother tried to convince me otherwise, and I didn’t give up on love just because I dated more than a few toads before I found my forever mate. So, I’m not going to give up on that mountain of ideas just yet either.

I’m not excited about it, not even happy really. Life would be way easier if I could be content with giving up on this dream and enjoy what I’ve already accomplished, and what I already know I can succeed in doing. But that’s never going to happen.

So, whether I like it or not, it looks like it’s about time for a whole new story to unfold.