I’ve always wanted to be a writer. When I was a child, I would devour books, so much so that my mother had to pace me. Every Friday night, we would go to the mall with my great-aunt and I’d get an ice cream and a new book, usually the latest addition to The Babysitters Club series. The next day, I would read it from cover to cover and patiently wait until the following Friday to get another one. Since my teen years, I’ve always had a book and a journal in my purse. In high school, my English teacher encouraged me to pursue writing and literature in university so I did, but I didn’t like it. Too much literature, not enough writing. I also didn’t do very well in my English classes my first year, but I excelled in my History classes so I switched majors. By the time I finished my Bachelor’s degree, I had a concentration in History and barely enough credits to justify a minor in English. My dream of being an author quietly faded and I pursued a teaching degree to compliment the History one. Those who can’t, teach, right?
However, years passed and I kept writing – journaling mainly. I wrote a few short stories here and there, but nothing ever really materialised. Deep down, I still fantasized about writing as a career, but how? I’d also always assumed that I’d write a novel, but that big idea never came. I still kept journaling, but gave up on being a fiction writer. I knew for sure I’d never publish my journals so not long after I married, I burned all of them. I felt I needed to cleanse, but I do regret this from time to time. There would’ve been some good teenage angst-y stuff in there, but what’s done is done.
I also thought I’d have something published by the time I’d turn forty which is why last summer, I wrote a novel. I pushed it through, but was rejected by two publishers. I was pretty disappointed, but now I see that I was trying to tell a very personal story through a fiction lens and a humorous approach. I guess that’s not the way it was meant to be told.
It is meant to be raw. It is meant to be authentic. It is meant to be real. And that’s how I’m going to write it.
I went to a writing workshop last weekend that reignited the spark so here I go again. I may not achieve my dream of publishing something by the time I’m forty, but at least I know I’ll write something worth reading. Hopefully 😉
Do you have a childhood dream that just won’t let go? How do you keep motivated? Do you dream of writing a book?