It’s a story I seldom tell, but needs to be told…
I got a degree in English, but never believed I could actually make a profession out of it so I squandered those early years taking whatever job looked intriguing and didn’t require experience. Every afternoon, I’d pull out the jobs section of the newspaper and became everything from an usher to a research assistant and even a private investigator.
Looking back, there were oodles of gems to pull from. All those late nights with my homemade burrito wrapped in foil surveying the area for criminal activity or working retail when I was really under cover. When those moments were fresh, however, writing was eons away from where I was. Even as a research assistant investigating healthy aging for my boss’s book, writing my own never occurred to me.
Who was I to even dream it? I was a fifth generation Japanese American girl born and raised on an island from a divorced family with public school education. This was way before there was such a thing as full-time bloggers and freelance writers. Writing for a living was an elusive dream for the privileged and sublimely talented.
My husband asked me once how far I would be professionally if I stuck with one career instead of the fifteen or so I’ve sampled. Maybe if I had the confidence to focus purely on my prose I would be a published author with a MFA right now instead of with a Masters I hardly use. It’s tempting to see the path I could have taken. It’s also dangerous.
But if I were to honestly evaluate the less traveled road I’ve walked with all it’s premature stops and starts, a different story forms. While I am not a best selling author, I actually lived the lives of my characters. I was a shy ordinary person who scaled walls at night. I talked teens out of self-harm. I sold books and chocolate. And after decades, I even got paid to write.
I don’t know for sure what my life would look like had I stayed the course. But all that perspective has made me a better human and possibly a richer writer. When I’m conjuring up my character’s fear upon being caught in a middle grade mystery or the devastation of losing a parent in my picture book, it’s all drawn from real experiences. The soul of my characters resides in the steps I took, the fear I felt and the emotions I grappled with. It breathes life into my work.
The other day, my son’s teacher asked him to finish a picture. He decided to turn the paper over and draw bugs instead. When I asked him why he didn’t follow her instructions, he said:
“Because Mommy I made a mistake and I didn’t know how.”
And that’s when I knew the strength of my long winding path. It’s built resilience, the comfort of being uncomfortable, and to fail and fail again. After 100 submissions and over a decade of writing, I’m finally at the place where I know what needs to done and I believe I can do it.
The twenty something me had the material, but I needed to grow into the person who could write it by changing costumes, playing different characters, and pushing myself into life threatening scenarios. These days, rejections are still painful, but they are not deal breakers. Being a perennial beginner garnered confidence, an unexpected trait I picked up on the journey. It might take me longer than others, but I will get there.
