Dream Killed, and Resurrected

June 7, 2013

Nearly two decades ago I made a very scary confession.  Well to me it was scary.  One night over wine (and after completing an online writing course), I told a close friend that I secretly loved writing stories and that I wanted to publish a novel.  She looked at me with furrowed brow.  “A book about what?” she asked.  I could feel my excitement growing and with I am sure a sparkle in my eye, I replied “I’m not sure, I have SO many ideas, maybe about a couple that travels the world doing missionary work, or maybe children’s books about life lessons or maybe something autobiographical, about my childhood or my family, oh man, they’re so messed up and crazy!” (Sorry family, but we really really are.)  At this point my excitement could not be contained and I am sure I was grinning like a school-girl.  Needless to say my friend did NOT share my giddiness.  In no uncertain terms, she believed my idea of becoming a writer to be frivolous, ridiculous and other –ous words I probably cannot remember.  It’s all a fog.  One minute I was pouring out heartfelt enthusiasm about a lifelong dream and then she started using the –ous words and all I remember is an overwhelming feeling of something squeezing the crap out of my heart.  My mind snapped to attention when I heard the final words “Besides, who would buy a book about a messed up family?  No one wants to hear about your story, Melissa, it just isn’t interesting.”

At the time I was young enough to believe that it was weak to show embarrassment or hurt.  I was in my 20’s so it was a time that I didn’t cry in front of others.  She had crushed my spirit but I just couldn’t allow her to know that.  I waved off the conversation as if it was the wine talking and scoffed “Yeah, you’re right, such a stupid idea, writing a book...”

And for two decades I have been struggling with those words.  I would hear them when I slept.  “Besides, who would buy a book about a messed up family?  No one wants to hear about your story, Melissa, it just isn’t interesting.”  I would hear them when I sit at my computer, contemplating journaling or writing something that isn’t this blog.  I heard them when I met with an awesome writer, Kimberly Stuart, during a book discussion in 2008 and my dream was revealed (OK, blurted out) again.  The awesome writer was MUCH more encouraging, though.  Thank you, Kim!

It wasn’t my friend’s fault.  She didn’t know that three short sentences would derail a dream for nearly 20 years.  That’s all on me.  I was young and weak and, obviously, very easily influenced – I mean 3 short sentences and poof! Every hope I had, vanished?!?!  I just couldn’t wave off the negativity.  I couldn’t see that maybe in a world filled with billions of people, someone, somewhere, just one person might find my words interesting or funny or reflective or inspiring.  And then it hit me. 

The contentment I experience when I write has nothing to do with the audience reading my stories.  (Sorry, handful of faithful blog-followers.)  Back then, when I was writing short stories for the online writing course, no one read my work except my professor.  He gave me complimentary or critical feedback but my satisfaction was already experienced.  I made the corrections when needed, of course, but the pleasure I felt was during the writing process.  It was the thinking about how the character felt or how the plot would take a turn.  It was the creative process.  I was writing for me.  It was my therapy.

Now in writing for my blog, I am still writing for me.  I may write an entry and keep it hidden for months before I publish it (like the first 5 paragraphs of this one). Or I may never publish it all (I have a few secret narratives stashed away right now).  I don’t discuss the subjects of my blogs with my friends or family.  I didn’t really even tell my family that I was blogging until several entries in.  When it was “discovered” (because I plastered it all over Facebook), I was sort of all, “Oh yeah, that.  I’m just trying some writing thing.”  I think I waved it off as trivial because I was still hearing those final words, although they do seem to be getting quieter. 

Writing is my personal therapy.  I don’t share until I am ready.  Not even with my 12-year-old daughter, an avid reader, who was introduced to my blog for the first time yesterday and became immediately relentless about reading everything AS I write it.  She’s obsessed with reading first drafts.  Every time I sat down at my computer as I was finishing this entry, she was over my shoulder, “Whatcha writing?”  I wouldn’t share – I am just not ready yet.  I share way more than I care to as a mom and wife.  (Can I please go to the bathroom by myself for once, please, I beg you!?)  With writing, I need the time to put my words down and get my thoughts the way I want them.  I need the creative portal. 

Pouty, she read my published blog online yesterday in one fell swoop and the words “You should share.  You’re a good writer, Mom,” never sounded so glorious.  Baby steps, child.  This blog was my first step. 

I made a deal with her, as soon as she shares ALL her texts and KIK conversations she has with friends, I will share the subjects of my writing and first drafts as I write them.  Ha, touché, pre-teen!  Who knows, maybe when I get over this whole writing-for-me concept, I’ll take my next baby step and she & I will write a book together.  Sounds like a best-seller to me.