The year was 1982. I was a young artist and writer, just finishing college. I had crafted a college major out of the disciplines I loved, which included illustration, writing, and calligraphy. I had designed a one-of-a-kind curriculum, approved by advisors and deans. I had written and illustrated a children’s book which was acclaimed throughout the art department, and had garnered the attention of the institution’s literati as well. By all accounts, my humble beginnings at my small liberal arts college in a lovely corner of the world ensconced in pines and mountain views was the perfect launchpad for a trajectory into a life of literary and artistic notoriety.
Yet, something was missing — a critical element that would affect my life in many many ways for decades. I had no confidence. No self-esteem. I believed myself to be nothing and no one. And therefore, I could not see my path forward.
So I set out to find myself. I left my home town. I traveled across the country in an old converted bus that a small company had turned into a travel van, with dinettes that folded out into bunk beds by night. I played cards and sang songs and traded stories with strangers who became fast friends. Then one day I waved a hand to my friends and jumped off the bus and started a life far from home and the little support I had to rely on until that point.
I wanted to be free. Free to find that inner self that was shouting to be heard, like a bird in a blanketed cage wanting to see the sun.
I got an apartment, made friends, and started working in a publishing house in Boston. At night I would stare at the moon and write stories. Hungry for influences, for enrichment, I perused the shelves of my artist roommate's studio and borrowed a book or two. I strolled the music room of another roommate, looking at the drums and guitars and thinking, “How amazing that these people know what they want, and how to achieve it. They are pursuing their dreams.” Another roommate was fast becoming a fashion designer, and I was smitten by her sewing nook and homemade patterns, and the dress form that sported her latest brand.
I was so very alone. There I was, far from home, looking for something and not finding it, and seeing the evidence around me that others had it. Two of the roommates were sisters, and the other was one of the sisters’ boyfriends. They were a happy little clique. And I was a transplant. An extra. I may as well have been from Mars.
One day, I heard voices downstairs in the kitchen. They sounded unhappy. I heard my name. I stepped closer to the landing, and took one step down, then two steps. They were discussing my infractions and misdemeanors. How I had invaded their space. Borrowed their books. "Who the hell does she think she is?"
After a moment, I announced myself. “I’m sorry for overhearing, but just so you know, you can actually tell me these things, right to my face. I’m right here.” You are cowards, I thought. But I didn't say that.
They looked stunned. They muttered in an embarrassed fashion, but nothing that might resemble an apology. I told them they needn’t worry, I was moving out anyway. (This was news to me.) In a week I was gone.
Maybe that was the nudge I needed. I got another apartment, this time with a friend who was producing documentaries. Wherever I went, I was surrounded by creatives. People who were building a life around art, writing or music.
I kept writing. I kept believing that even though I was lost, I would eventually get it all figured out. And then one day I submitted some of my stories into a master of fine arts program at the University of New Hampshire. I will never forget the day I received the acceptance letter. A doorway had opened.
The next two years were exhilarating and frightening. I quit my job at the publishing house and began working weekends as a server and bartender in Boston to pay my way through school. During the week, I lived in New Hampshire. On weekends I stayed with my boyfriend at the time in Boston. It was a whirlwind. But in two years, I had my masters degree and a collection of stories.
I would love to say that was the point at which I developed the confidence I needed and committed to my creative pursuits in earnest. Sadly no.
Money was an issue. I needed an income. I needed a life. I was going to have to tuck that writing passion in and around a career of some kind. I had given up on the painting and illustration. Entertaining two pursuits while finding myself seemed impossible.
It would take volumes to describe the many twists and turns my life took from there. I’d describe my return to my home town, five years after jumping on that hippie bus that took me to the other side of the country. I'd tell you about the next fork in the road that took me to California, to the heart of Silicon Valley just as the big tech boom began. I’d tell the story of becoming a technical writer because they were desperate for people who could string sentences together. I would also share the story of ending up in an abusive seven-year relationship that dampened any possibility of this would-be writer emerging from her little shell. I’d describe my departure from that relationship in a moment of hope, desire and conviction that I was meant for something better. And how I immediately landed in another relationship with the man I would marry, and how the past 25 years of my life have been spent being a wife and a mother, while also building a career in high-tech content marketing. I love the picture above. Obviously, it is not me. But it encapsulates the chaos of those young family years, when I remember feeling lucky to be able to take a shower, let alone find a few moments of peace to write. Somehow in all that, while my creative fire burned, and I dabbled when I could, it was never the focus. I was driving kids to dance and soccer practice, running scout troops, volunteering at school, sitting with my mom friends at the kids' baseball and softball games, and helping them with homework. And I would not trade in those wonderful years for anything. So… what now, you ask? Whatever happened to those wide-eyed dreams about becoming a published writer? Well, I am rebuilding that story. For the past five years or so, since the kids got old enough to do for themselves, I have stolen back time to write. Writing is my avocation. My hobby. My labor of love. The dream has changed, as all big dreams do. I click-clack away at it when I can. I belong to a writing workshop where I get feedback on my stories. Then I polish them and I submit them to literary magazines and anthologies. I currently have four stories published and just had my 5th one accepted for publication. You can see the list of published stories here on my website, where I also publish my writing workshop’s fiction prompts, some self-published stories, and other writing-related stuff. I am sanguine about all of it. This is my life, and I’m happy. In some alternate reality, I would have been writing and publishing children’s books or novels all these years. But you know what they say, “Life is what happens when you are making other plans.” And of course Hive (and its predecessor) entered my life about five years ago, and I discovered my passion for supporting other writers on their journey. The Ink Well is the second writing community I've helped to run on this platform. Sadly the other one fell apart in a political maelstrom. It has been a long and winding road. And on that note, here is the song that inspired the title of this post. It is such a sweet song, and so worth a listen if it has been a while since you heard it. Thank you for reading my post! I wish you all the best in your creative pursuits and your life journey. Photo credits: All of the photos in this post were taken by me with my iphone and belong to me, unless otherwise noted.
Source: Tumisu on Pixabay
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