At the Beginning

The anthology of each life is filled with a myriad of short stories and chapters. I feel like we've opened this book at some random place in the middle. While it is part of the over-arcing theme, it will be a complete tale in and of itself. It is the story of a kid who once dreamed of writing, who put that dream away, and somehow found her way back again. But, unlike the stories in my manuscripts, this one is real. As such, I can't tell you where it is going or how it will end, but I can take you along on the journey with me. We can hope that our heroine will balance gracefully on the spinning carousel, dancing in time to the calliope, as she reaches out to finally catch the brass ring.

I remember wanting to be so very many things growing up; a Nurse, a Ballerina, a French Horn player in the National Orchestra, an Opera singer, and yes, a Writer. One year, when I was not quite in my teens, my family took a cross country trip and I spent my time in the back seat with page after page of lined notebook paper and a pencil trying to write my first novel. (It was awful!) I wrote poetry (that was better), won a contest or two, and they are published somewhere in a collection whose name was long ago forgotten. I don't even have a copy. Then there was that period of time that I wanted to write either commercials or greeting cards....

Life moved on, and somewhere along the way I stopped writing. Periodically here and there I would pick up a pen, jot something down, and it always found itself crumpled in the trash. I never stopped loving the words in all their forms. I surrounded myself with other artists and reveled in their beauty but left my pen in the writing desk. Friends have a way of influencing you, though. Last year one of those dear friends decided that he was going to create something new every day of the month of his birthday. Then, he challenged others to create as well and I took the bait.

It was innocuous at first, a silly little poem, a flower arrangement, I think at one point I colored a butterfly. But my friend wasn't buying it. He called me out. It was functional, good form, but it lacked substance and emotion. There was no truth to it. I tried to argue that I didn't know my audience well enough to give them anything too personal, that I was afraid to offend, but he cut that argument down, too. I still don't know how I did it, where I found the courage, or why, but I offered to show him something real.

Poetry came first; disjointed, raw, unedited emotion in its purest form. I think he may have been shocked. None of them knew that I had those words in me. Day by day they flowed out, first a drip, then a trickle, and by the end of that month I was writing again. I'd created a world as a gift to three little girls, a world that I hope to one day share with other children. Not only did they not hate it, but they asked for more. My heart nearly burst when one of the girls asked me to help her write a story of her own. Watching those girls love their stories, I fell in love with writing again. So when another friend handed me the flyer of a publisher looking for stories, I thought, what's the worst they can say, no?

Now, I am staring at my fictional debut with all the excitement, nervousness, and fear that new phases of life bring. I'm writing in a genre that I had no idea that I would dearly love, connecting to a past I wish I had known more about, and sharing that beautiful place with others along the way. I am able to say I am an author and a writer; creating worlds, spinning tales, and sharing them with you.

Here I am, at the beginning...