Back When I Wanted To Be A Writer...

I recall as a young adult, a long time ago now, wanting desperately to get one thing, just one thing, published. It didn't matter what it was, I just wanted to see my work in print. I didn't know what that would prove, but it would mean something to me. So I tried and tried and tried again, dutifully mailing in short stories, articles, essays, poetry, jokes, original cartoons, and so on to different publications. Only to have them repeatedly returned, rejection slips attached. Sometimes I would swear that those rejections boomeranged so fast and furious that the mailman had only driven a few times around the block before bringing them back.

The bottom line was that these very early missives simply weren't written well enough then to be published (this was long before there were computers and the Internet in every home, where people could write whatever they liked, click a button and have it in print, so to speak). I didn't realize that at the time and it took me some years to finally figure it out, mainly because back then just trying to survive from day to day captured much of my attention.

Yet, despite the seemingly never-ending rejections and the ongoing discouragement, I remained steadfast, holding tightly onto my dream of one day becoming a writer. I had to because no one else at that time believed in my dream, or me.

I lost count of how many times someone asked me back then, usually in a sad voice, "You're not still trying to get your writing published, are you?"

"No, no," I finally learned to answer quickly and change the subject, despite the fact that my small apartment's bedroom walls during those days were decorated with rejection slips (I suppose I did that to prove to myself that I was striving for something).

The thing is these naysayers didn't really mean any harm. I realize, now that I'm older and finally a little smarter, that they were probably hoping to avert some of my perpetual disappointment, to keep me from the heartache of repeatedly facing yet another form of rejection. Because, frankly, there was already a whole lot of that in my life in many other ways at that time.

I grew up more in an atmosphere of "can't" than "can."

"Don't be stupid," this or that sibling would say when I would dare as a small child to utter aloud some ridiculous hope. "You'll never be able to do that."

Again, it wasn't intentional harm being inflicted. I was simply this odd, backward, shy little girl who dared to dream what must have seemed impossible.

From five years old I was forever saying things like, "I'd love to go somewhere in an airplane." When traveling just ten miles or so down the road and back in a car was a huge deal in itself then.

We only saw planes up close on our black and white television and there I was talking of flying in one. It was just beyond incredible, especially when we were sure that to fly anywhere, if you could get to an airport which also seemed unlikely back in that remote rural area, would surely have to cost millions of dollars just for a ticket,

Yet, regardless of such factors, I continued to dream aloud. I still remember in the first grade seeing a picture of the Eiffel Tower. I thought it was one of the most beautiful structures I had ever seen. I held the textbook out to a classmate, pointed to the picture and proclaimed, "One day I'd like to go to the top of that tower."

She, in return, hooted with laughter. Of course, she thought I was joking. Most of us children living country lives in those deep backwoods had never even heard of Europe, much less know where it was. It wasn't relevant to our lives so the majority of people there simply didn't give it much thought.

And so it went with every dream while growing up, from traveling to writing to using an elevator.

Okay, so that last one is a little strange but keep in mind that we lived in a mountain area where the small grocery store and post office, about 15 miles away by car, were the sum total of the largest buildings in town. I had never even seen a big department store or hotel then except, again, on television. So when I saw a movie where people were actually going up and down floors to shop and then traveling in the evening to hotel penthouses via elevators I didn't give a rat's behind about the shopping or the penthouses but, oh, to glide upward in an elevator! That just seemed like pure joy,

And, frankly, when I did finally get to ride for the first time in one when I was just turning 18, despite the fact it was a bank elevator and jam-packed with employees so that I was stuffed in the back like a lost sardine, it was pure joy. That first time anyway, The thrill of that particular dream wore off pretty fast,

As I grew during that long-ago Appalachian childhood, some dreams, too fragile to withstand the pressure, got crushed along the way and others simply died a natural death. However, through it all, I never stopped wanting, I never stopped dreaming of becoming a writer. It didn't happen, throughout grade school, throughout high school and on out into the world on my own. Still, I tried and tried and tried.

Then one day when I was around 20 I was standing in the middle of my apartment's small bedroom, that same bedroom decorated with rejection slips, I was holding yet another returned manuscript attached to yet another one of those form letters. Depressed, I looked at the covered walls, wondering where I was going to find even one more inch of space to tack or tape up this latest "sorry we can't use this" note. When, suddenly, out of the blue, I was struck with another great need, another impossible dream.

I realized in that single moment that what I needed more than anything was a champion. I needed someone to "be on my side." I needed someone to encourage me, to spur me on to greater things. I stood rooted to the spot and, with all my heart, I wished for, yearned for, longed for, and prayed as hard as I could for a champion of my very own.

That didn't happen either. No matter how hard I wished, how much I wanted it, how long I prayed, no champion appeared.

Still, I persisted with my attempts at getting work published and as long as I continued to write my material did improve a bit over the ensuing years,. Eventually, instead of the usual impersonal mass-produced rejection letters I actually started getting a few quick penned notes now and again on those dreaded small slips of paper. They were still rejections, yes, but at least now I knew someone somewhere was actually reading my submissions, reading and thinking about them. However, a rejection is a rejection is a rejection. I kept writing and those rejections, although some were now personalized, continued to arrive for the next eight years or so.

Life changed, went on, and changed some more. And I kept writing and having people say no, again and again, to all my ongoing efforts..

Then one day, when I was 29 years old and had been married to a military man for a year, I walked through my relatively empty Navy house and caught sight of myself in the mirror. And in that unexpected time of self-reflection (in more ways than just my image), I realized suddenly that there was, staring back at me, my champion. The person I had prayed for so many years to appear, to encourage me, to cheer me on , was standing there, right in front of me. It was me. If no one else was going to be my champion then I would fill that role. I decided in that moment I would increase my efforts to gigantic proportions. I would do whatever it took from that point on to finally see my work in print.

There weren't many jobs available to military wives around our housing area then, since the Navy liked to employ local people on the base, so I had time on my hands. I decided to start anew in my quest of being a published writer by taking one basic English class at a college in Honolulu since I was living in Hawaii at that time.

You might wonder, given my new and stronger resolve, why I didn't immediately dive right in, feet first, into every venue of writing that I could find. The fact was that, except for driving across the country to California and then flying on to Hawaii, I had never been out of the south before then. Those years of growing up in a beautiful but remote mountain area in a relatively negative environment had left their mark. By the time I was an adult, but long before I was married, I lived on my own, yes, but I had little to no self-esteem during that time and for more years than I care to remember I was literally scared to death, of everything. And I hadn't totally conquered that fear once we arrived in Hawaii.

Just the thought of going back to school, even for one simple class, was frightening.

Even then, fear was still such a big part of my psyche. i had overcome a lot, but had not conquered all of it by the time we moved as basically still newlyweds to our first long-term Navy assignment.

Yes, I left home when I was just turning 18 and lived for a long time alone in a large city. Those were hard years, lonely years, dirt-poor years, but I managed and survived for the most part, even when several unexpected complications were thrown into the mix. One of those harsher complications back during that time of being single and mostly alone was the unexpected onset of a crippling phobia. One day out of the blue I developed a troubling ailment that would eventually be diagnosed as "a milder form of Agoraphobia, the fear of leaving your house," (although there was nothing mild about it in my mind).

I didn't know at that time what it was called or what to do about it. All I knew was that one day I got up as usual to go to work and suddenly I couldn't force myself to go out the front door. I broke into a cold sweat, I was short of breath, my chest hurt, and my heart started to pound wildly. My first thought was massive heart attack but with no car, no insurance and no money, a trip to the hospital emergency room was out of the question, although I did start to call 911. However, once I stepped back inside the terrible sensations abated a bit, enough to make me realize that I would soon have bill collectors hounding me again if I couldn't pay yet another hospital bill.

I didn't know what was wrong but I couldn't seem to go outside without making the situation worse, much worse. I called in sick that day, which meant a day without pay when I was already beyond broke. The feeling didn't get better by that evening. In fact, it seemed to deepen.

By that night I understood that I had to figure this out. I had to leave my house. I had to go to work. I was always at my first bus stop by 5:30 every morning. All told, I caught three different buses just to get to my job on time by 8:00. I had to figure out how to cope with this suddenly crippling illness enough to continue my usual morning routine.

This odd and unexpected phobia was one of the harder ordeals I've ever had to face, but face it I did. There was no other option. For the next week or so I literally dragged myself, foot by foot, out the door each morning, feeling all the while that I was in the midst of a severe heart attack. And, frankly, the mental and physical pain endured then was so great as I literally forced myself out that front door each time I found myself just wishing that I would expire, that I would simply die then and there outside my apartment and be free of all that pain. I was so pale and shaky by the time I got on the third bus that other passengers kept coming to my seat and asking if I was okay, but I was too shook up by then to even summon the energy to answer them, so that they finally drifted away.

I don't know how I managed but somehow I got through each workday for a while in a mechanical mode, dreaming only of getting back home behind closed doors where I would finally feel safe again. Once anchored anew each evening in my apartment during those nightmarish times I would simply sit and scribble in my old notebooks, all while munching on whatever food was in the fridge since I was afraid to go out and get more. When the food finally ran out I just skipped eating in the evenings , but I was usually too broke to buy many meals on a routine basis anyway so I was kind of used to that. If the phone rang I wouldn't answer, terrified someone would want me to leave my apartment. At the onset of weekends, when I didn't have to work, I would force myself to buy several things in the company's lunch room. Those were always saved to eat later. Then once home on Friday nights I wouldn't even poke my head out the door again until Monday morning.

Finally, there was a reprieve of sorts. I had somehow dredged up the nerve to call a local supply company near my apartment and ask if they needed any office help. Miracle of miracles, their receptionist left them suddenly high and dry and they called, wanting to know if I could start right away. The Agoraphobia was still a major problem, but with this new job I only had to force myself out the door and into a ten minute walk to work and back before being able to scuttle safely once more into my walled surroundings at night, where I would sit and scrawl short stories about colorful characters who were doing all the exciting things I longed to do but couldn't because it was a major ordeal just to leave my home.

Within a very short while , even though I had managed to snare a job closer to home, I knew I couldn't go on, that I would have to get help of some kind. I asked for half a day off from work and spent one afternoon calling every government number I could find even related to a mental health facility. After hours of what seemed to be useless research and talking to uncaring bureaucrats before my call was transferred yet again to yet another such person, I finally came across a sympathetic woman who listened to my story, gave the medical name for my strange and relatively new fear, and told me I could go for a sliding-rate fee to a mental health facility within my county. It was an hour's walk away but I was young then and walked everywhere, so that was no big deal. The fee, on the other hand, set me back a bit. It was $8 for the hour.

That doesn't sound like much now, but it was such a fortune for me in those days that it came down to a choice between getting help for the Agoraphobia or eating. I simply couldn't afford both. So on therapy days I skipped all meals. Coping with and trying to eliminate the Agoraphobia, which I was finally able to do, was just more important.

There was more, much much more, that I had to deal with, in childhood, during teenage years, during my young adulthood, but that would take a book to cover all that , a book I don't have time to write and a book that you don't have the time to read. Still, while the Agoraphobia was completely gone when I walked down the aisle at age 28 at my wedding it wasn't really any wonder that by the time we had driven cross country and moved to our new home in Hawaii that I was still somewhat backward and remained painfully shy at that time.

My then-new husband, almost as soon as we landed in Hawaii, was deployed to parts unknown, so I was on my own. My neighbors in the Navy housing didn't care for me, with good reason. I was so scared to talk to them that they thought me an aloof snob. It didn't occur to any of them that a grown person in that day and age could simply be terrified.

And then there I was that one day, feeling lonely and depressed and discouraged, walking through my almost empty Navy house and finding myself staring for a long time into that mirror and suddenly thinking, "If I did all that, if I got over Agoraphobia, if I went through all those other very painful trials and tribulations and managed to survive, why can't I do this? Why can't I be a published writer?'

'Heck,' I remember thinking right after that, recalling another childhood dream of long ago. 'Maybe if I manage to figure that out at last then one day I'll even make it to the top of the Eiffel Tower.'

In that moment, in that single point in time, I became my own champion. It was a huge turning point.

It still wasn't easy, starting with that first beginning English course. I had a car but the thought of trying to drive in downtown Honolulu was too much for me.

A few blocks behind my house on Oahu was the ocean. There was a Navy ferry, basically an old Navy open-air boat with benches along the side where people could sit. This ferry took people across each morning to Pearl Harbor where you could then catch a bus to downtown Honolulu. I had signed up for the English course over the phone and when the time came timidly made my way down to the area I needed and heeded protocol. An enlisted man shouted first for officers to board, then enlisted, and then simply stated the word "other." I was one of the "others." Still, the bumpy ferry ride only took about 30 minutes, was relatively pleasant, and there was a city bus waiting right outside the military gate.

I still remember the Hawaiian driver, the first day I boarded his bus, asking me where I was from, When I told him he replied, "Whoo-whee, 'dat accent!"

When I finally managed to find the building I needed in downtown Honolulu and found a seat in the classroom, it was only a few minutes before I was ready to bolt. The professor, as soon as he called roll and heard me speak, started making fun of the way I talked. When we were finally given a break, my first thought was to flee the obvious and ongoing ridicule and not look back.

'No!' I told myself. 'You built up the nerve to come this far. This is important. Don't give up now.'

When we returned to class that day the professor told us he wanted to see what type of writing skills we possessed and asked us to finish the session by writing about something we had witnessed. I wrote about an elderly couple, obviously in love, who had been on the bus that morning. I wrote, wrote some more, rewrote and then rewrote some more.

"What did you do, pen 100 pages for this small assignment?" the professor sneered when I handed him my thick stack of papers before leaving.

The English class was a summer course, but it met every weekday so I had to do the whole thing again the following morning. To say I was dreading it was an understatement, but, once more, I reminded myself that I had overcome much greater odds than this. I soldiered onward.

When I got to the college that second day the professor, looking somehow bewildered and pleased at the same time, was standing outside the classroom door.

"You!" he shouted, pointing his finger at me as I neared. "You are a marvelous writer!"

The clouds parted, the birds sang, the sun was brighter, and all of a sudden all was right with the world. In this unlikely source, in this teacher who just the day before had spent most of the class making fun of my accent, I had found another champion.

"Why, thank you!" I exclaimed, noticing that my deep southern drawl then actually made him flinch. "That's my dream, to be a published writer."

And that man, from that point on, did everything he could do to help me reach that goal. Over the next couple of years I signed up for every class he taught. He, a published writer himself, in return, actually took the time, repeatedly, to thoroughly edit my term papers or anything else I wrote for his assignments.

His instructive notes and many encouraging written remarks never failed to thrill me (I still have those old marked-up papers to this day). So much so that one time I put some of my work he had graded and edited into manuscript form and entered it into a national writing contest. Only to read a short summary months later of the contest editor lamenting in print about the "poor quality" of that year's submissions.

"Some fool," he added, "even sent in a term paper."

But back to the time when that first basic English class was finished, my husband still wasn't home from deployment. So, while waiting for new classes to begin, I went out and bought every magazine and every book on how to write well, how to get published, and so on. Then each day thereafter for three to four hours I would sit in a lawn chair in the back yard and would choose and read material, highlighting this or that information while taking copious notes. Then that night I would write something, anything, trying to incorporate the points learned that day into my work.

In the meantime, little by little, I also started to lose my remaining fear of people. Not right away and not all at once, but lessons learned years earlier had taught me that when you have to overcome a huge goal you don't rush headlong into it and try to solve a major problem with one massive effort. Instead, you take baby steps, working your way up to an eventual solution. That's what I was doing with what was left of my inner fear and now with my writing.

It certainly took me long enough to figure this out, but before I was married I simply couldn't afford to attend classes or buy a lot of books. I did have many used books and bought writing magazines whenever possible during those harder cash-strapped days, but just trying to survive took so much of my attention back then that while I read when I had time it had never actually occurred to me before to really apply myself to any written instruction. Looking back, I'm not sure why not. It would have made my life easier in the satisfaction of possibly getting published earlier if not in financial gain, but I didn't.

Still, finally it was all starting to come together. I could feel it. I somehow knew, sitting outside each day then and studying tons of material and making hundreds of notes, that this was going to work.

A few months after my steady regiment of self-study, lo and behold, a check for $25 arrived. It was payment for an article of mine on how to use writing as an aid in therapeutic emotional healing. My first work in print! I was beyond delighted! I was euphoric, ecstatic. I was finally a published writer!

A few weeks after that , around 5:30 a.m., a magazine editor who didn't realize there was a couple of hours time difference between Hawaii and the mainland, called about a craft article. She told me if I would just change this and that on my copy of the manuscript they would be happy to take it. I didn't tell her that I had jotted down notes about that article, then had banged out the whole thing on an old typewriter (I didn't have a home computer then, no one had a home computer then) and had subsequently sent her my only copy.

"Sure thing," I mumbled sleepily, trying my best to sound professional but probably failing miserably. "I can certainly make those changes."

Then, as soon as she hung up, I scrambled from my bed, furiously hunted the handwritten notes and reconstructed the whole thing from memory. When the story was published, along with my photo in the magazine of all things, and was on local newsstands, my dad went into the small grocery store back in our hometown and bought every copy. He then proceeded to show the article to everyone in the shop as well as anyone else he came across.

My sister told me later that a local woman, a woman who to this day I despise, sneered, "How did she ever get into a magazine?"

My dad had replied, "Because she's smart, that's how."

And that was it, that was all I needed to hear. I don't remember now how much I got paid for that article, probably not a lot. Still, it didn't matter. Just the fact that my dad bragged about my writing to others was enough for me. Suddenly, I had another champion.

And many years afterward when my dad died and we were cleaning out his things, in the dash of his truck we found a rolled-up, old copy of that magazine with my craft article. Nothing I write now or have written since will ever hold the same meaning for me, simply because of the meaning that early published piece of mine seems to have held for my father.


My second published article


This is the copy of the old magazine, the one that had my second article in it, I found in my dad's truck after he died years after this piece was published.

Of course, not all writing experiences were as positive. After the craft article was published another magazine took a piece of mine about the ghosts that supposedly roam the mountains of my childhood.

My sister called when she discovered the story had been accepted. "You need to give up on this writing business," she scolded. "You're worrying Mom to death. She's afraid you're going to write something that will get you sued."

Even though I couldn't imagine how a piece about famous legends of ghosts, people long dead whose stories were well-known, could "get me sued," my mom was a natural worrier who actually meant well. So that most of the time I would have bent over backward not to cause her any concern. This time, though, I replied, "Tell Mom she's got enough to worry about without troubling herself with my writing. I know what I'm doing."

And once I didn't get sued, my mom came around, reading everything I got published from that point onward. And I do have one sibling who, to this day, reads all my work and kept all my letters I wrote to her, even way before I got anything published, because she liked my writing style. I can't say the same for everyone, though.


Another early article

Once a larger organization near my home at that time ran one of my pieces as their lead, I had had quiet a few articles, essays and stories published by then, but not so many that I wasn't literally thrilled to walk into that company's headquarters and see magazines lying everywhere with my manuscript's title on the front cover. Some family members were visiting then and that organization's huge main building was a draw for tourists.

"Look," I said, picking up one of the magazines. "They used my work as their lead this month."

No one even glanced at the periodical. In fact, they looked away. Still, I persisted, holding the magazine out toward them.

"They allot a free one to each visitor," I said. "You can take this copy with you and read my article later tonight when you're not busy."

One of them finally but reluctantly accepted my offering but when we exited the building that person dropped the magazine into a trash can, not seeming to care if I saw or not, before we went out the main door.

Several months later I was with some of these same people when I visited a large city bookstore. They went to peruse the books while I browsed through the shop's magazine rack. In a few moments I realized there was not just one but three different publications there that were running varied pieces of mine that month. Excited, I grabbed a copy of each magazine and dashed toward the others.

"You have to see," I said. "Each of these has a different article of mine in it! All at the same time! All here, in this big bookstore. Can you imagine?"

No one threw the magazines in the trash that time (they would have had to buy them to do that), but, again, they didn't look at me or the periodicals. Instead they just moved a few steps away, ignoring me, and continued to scan the books.

I stood there for a long moment, surprised and hurt. Then I thought back to that time years ago, before I had even one thing published, when I was walking through my Navy house and caught sight of my reflection in that mirror. I sighed, walked over and put the magazines back on the rack (the publishers had already sent me sample copies). Next, I squared my shoulders and held my head a little higher. These people obviously had some issues, but I didn't have to allow their issues to become mine. It was time to be my own champion again.

That was years ago, when I still needed such people's approval. These days, while I truly appreciate and am encouraged by those around me who actually seem anxious to read anything I pen, good or bad (and some of it is still bad now and again, we all have our off days) the approval of others just isn't that important anymore.

Working that hard to become my own champion over the years has become so second nature now, so ingrained in my psyche, that it's as natural to me these days as breathing. If I enjoy what I write, if I like the finished product, then I'm happy. And if some editor likes it as much, well then so much the better.

I do feel fortunate and blessed to have several family members now, along with others, who do seem to thoroughly enjoy my writing. However, there are those yet who have never once glanced at any of my published work and never will. That's okay. They won't ever offer any approval because they can't. After all, how can you offer support or approval elsewhere if, deep down, you secretly can't approve of yourself?

I did start to eventually get more and more manuscripts accepted as years went by, although I also got and still receive to this day rejection slips off and on as well. That's just a part of the writing game.

The bottom line, though, is that I have finally realized that if my writing makes someone smile, if my words make a reader feel some emotion, any emotion, then I have done what I was put here to do. I have made a difference, even if sometimes it's only for a split second. That's what really matters, that's all that really matters, in the long run. The writing is the crux of it all.

And, oh yes, it's been years now, but, along with figuring out how to get my manuscripts published, I also did finally make it to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I remember that trip like it was yesterday. It was getting close to dusk when we arrived in France that first time, but as soon as we had checked into the hotel I insisted we visit the Eiffel Tower. It was a spine-chilling thrill to step into the elevator and see a smaller man sporting a goatee and wearing a beret.

I was so excited that not only was I going to go all the way to the top of the Eiffel Tower, just as I had dreamed in the first grade of that remote mountain school in what seemed a lifetime ago, but I would be sharing the experience with a real Frenchman. I couldn't wait until we got to the top to hear him speak since I had never heard the French language spoken in a native tongue before. Somehow just the thought of him talking at the pinnacle of that famous tower seemed the ultimate and most satisfying conclusion to that long-ago once seemingly impossible childhood dream.

When we got to the top and peered with sheer delighted awe at the beautiful and glittering city lights of Paris, the man from the elevator, standing near us, finally did speak.

"Gee wilikers!" he said, with a distinctly Texan accent. "Ain't that something?"

When I laughed aloud with delighted surprise, he turned, smiling, toward me. "Okay, so maybe you think it's funny, me being so excited about this, but you don't understand. Ever since I was just a boy in this little spit of Texas so far back in the woods that you had to live there to even know it existed I've wanted to come to the top of the Eiffel Tower."

I returned his warm smile and touched the shoulder of this kindred spirit. "I do understand," I told him. "In fact, I was just thinking that someday I might write about this."