Why Write?

For as long as I can remember my fingers have itched to put words on paper. I have drawers teeming with notebooks filled with half-formed stories and characters who exist only in my imagination. Ever since the third grade when I wrote my first epic story, The Toilet Zone, about aliens who invade a house through a magical conduit in the sewers, I have wanted to be an author. I have literally spent hundreds of hours twisting words into fantasy worlds over the past four decades of my life. Four decades of clinging to a dream and what do I have to show for it? A callus on my right middle finger the size of Nebraska, a mild case of carpal tunnel syndrome, and enough disappointment to fill the ocean. In an attempt to reinvigorate my passion for writing I began entering short stories to challenges on Vocal ten months ago. A dozen stories in and I've had one like, one positive comment, eleven total reads, and earned a whopping $0.08. So now, I ask myself, why haven't I had any success yet and why do I keep chasing this dream?

Before I can answer the second question, I have to honestly examine the first. What is it that keeps me from being a successful writer? There is the easy defeatist answer that nags at the back of my mind. Then there's my favorite go-to excuse that makes me feel better about all my failures in life because it's for a noble cause. But deep down inside, where I hide the part of me only God knows, that's where I find the biggest hurdle of all I need to get over.

On the surface, the thing that seems to threaten my dream the most, the first thought that whispers in my ear when I ponder my lack of success, “what if I'm not as good a writer as I think I am?” But the truth is, I'm probably not as good a writer as I think I am. If you ask me, I'll lie and say my only goal is to be published and I don't care if I'm never a best selling author. But deep down I've always believed my name should one day reside with the likes of J.K. Rowling, J.R.R. Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis because in my mind I'm just that talented. So based on that I would have to admit that I am not as good a writer as I believe. But so what? Does that mean I am doomed to failure? Of course it doesn’t. I might have to work harder, hone my skills more, and be willing to accept harsh criticism. I am a firm believer that my success is completely up to me and I will be exactly as successful as I want to be if I put in the effort.

Unfortunately, that brings up a whole new dilemma. If I can be as successful as I want to be, what else is really stopping me?

My entire life I have chased two big dreams. There is only one thing in this world I wanted to be more than an author. I have always wanted to be a mother first and foremost. Check, check, check. Three sons: one raised successfully to adulthood, one racing through his teenage years faster than I am comfortable with, and the last teetering on the edge of childhood and tweendom. For the past two decades my world has revolved around them and thus all my shortcomings also revolve around them. Late for an appointment, messy house, chronic fatigue, eating at McDonald’s, postponing my writing career, whatever the problem I can find a way to blame it on my children. Quite frankly, most of the time it's not a lie. I like to be early to everything, my children disagree and once they became too big to physically pick up and put in the car I suddenly found myself running late much more frequently. My messy house is actually a calculated decision. I work fulltime and when I get home I want to enjoy my time with my children and not fight with them to clean up their messes or spend my evening cleaning up after them. I literally haven’t slept through the night since my first trimester in 2003. I ache, I worry, I wake at every cough and footstep. The struggle is as real as my constant fatigue. We don’t need to talk about the fast food problem. But the issue at hand is postponing one dream for another.

I wanted children, lots of children, and originally thought I would be a stay at home mom of a huge family using naptime and school hours to crank out stories. But life took a different path. I had the degree and my husband wanted one. He had been working ridiculous hours at two jobs so I could stay home with our first baby. But he never got to enjoy being a father; when he was home he was tired and ornery. I had an opportunity to take a really great position running a restaurant at a university so he could work one job and go to school. Initially the plan was to work five years while he finished school, have baby number two while working, then transition back to staying at home when he got a great job with benefits. Then I could crank out more babies and stories. But we lost baby number two and baby number three took two more years to get. I nearly gave up on ever having more and the stress took a toll on our marriage. Life was hard for both of us. My passion for everything but my son faded. Somehow, we found a way through the struggle, turned back to each other and finally welcomed our next child to our family.

The arrival of our second son breathed more life into our home and I found my writing voice once more. My maternity leave proved to be incredibly fruitful. A new story began pouring out and by the time I returned to work I had over 100 pages. But juggling two boys while running a restaurant took more of my focus and the progress of the blossoming novel slowed to a crawl. Over the next three years my 100 page novel became 300 pages, some great and some terrible. Whenever I felt I made progress I had to set aside my writing to focus on my children and I was happy to do it. I loved being a mom and we decided our home needed one more bundle of joy.

For a time the struggle to get our third child consumed all my energy. Doctor visits, medication, ultrasounds, and scheduled intimacy followed by hopeful excitement crushed by repeated devastation month after month overwhelmed me. But finally my fourth pregnancy succeeded in the arrival of our third beautiful son. Any delusions that this maternity leave would be as productive with writing as the previous leave quickly drowned in an exquisitely overwhelming ocean of postpartum depression. My husband and I selflessly sacrificed all our time together for the benefit of our children. We worked opposite shifts and my life became so isolating at one point I realized the only people who ever spent time with me were those I employed or those I gave birth to. My depression deepened and I found failure in everything I did. At that point I truly wanted to give up on any dream; my children would have to be my magnum opus. Then I was told about a woman who wrote a best selling novel in her fifties, after her children were grown. She attributed her success to having a wealth of life experiences to draw on to create her work. I realized for the first time it really was okay to postpone one dream for another. There is no age limit on becoming a successful writer but there is certainly a time table on parenthood. Like it or not, my babies will all grow up and leave one day. One day, I'll have more time on my hands than I can stand. One day, I will have time to dedicate to finishing everything I've started. I promised myself "one day" and I realigned my focus on my amazing boys.

However, now that my boys are much more independent, I have found a little more time to devote to my other dream and have been able to publish a handful of stories on Vocal, stories that have largely been overlooked and unread. So why are my stories seeing no amount of success?

That brings me to the biggest hurdle I need to get over to one day be a successful writer and it has nothing to do with my children or my skill level. The honest hard truth is that I am afraid. If I really devote the time required for me to be a writer by trade and not just by hobby, what happens if I'm still not successful? I can't risk quitting my day job, as they say. I have to provide for my family somehow. So success has to come first, or retirement. But as scary as finances are, my fear is rooted much, much deeper.

The dark truth is that I'm afraid of people reading my work, especially people who know me. What will they think of the innermost twisting of my brain? There is so much that can be kept hidden in day to day interactions, social media posts, and the niceties of customer service related jobs. But to write something that feels real, to create characters with substance, a writer has to infuse the words with a piece of their own soul. Laying my soul bare on paper is one thing, but inviting my friends, family, neighbors, co-workers, and church members to examine my bare soul is another level of crazy. So, for the past several months I've happily posted multiple stories for whatever strangers might be interested, but I haven't invited anyone I know to read them, aside from my husband. I haven't even told anyone I'm publishing stories online, aside from my husband. I am terrified of actually putting myself out there and facing real rejection, real failure. If I start promoting myself on social media and I never hit 100 reads, will I be able to survive that kind of public rejection not just by strangers, but by those that should love and support me? At some point, I am going to have to find out. I will have to believe in myself enough to bite the bullet and jump in with both feet. Really, that's the crux of the whole issue. I have to truly believe in myself enough to overcome my fears.

So why do I keep writing? My children love to remind me that I'm old, I'm middle aged, my life is past its prime. Should I really still be chasing a dream? To every forty something year old mom who is facing the reality of an impending empty nest, I shout a resounding yes. We're not old, we're experienced. We're not middle-aged, we still have most of our life ahead of us (I fully intend to be a centenarian.) Our lives are not past their prime, the best is yet to come. Chasing dreams is most definitely not just for those in their twenties. If I give up on my dream just because life did not go according to plan, what does that teach my children? I have always imagined sitting down with them one day with a copy of my best selling book and saying, "if you don't give up on your dreams they won't give up on you." But I still have time, right?

That's certainly what I always thought. But then I got sick, really sick. I woke up one morning with debilitating, room spinning vertigo that would not let up for months. I had to start using a walker to avoid falls, I no longer felt safe driving, I struggled to understand things that used to be simple. Doctor after doctor sent me onto the next. My first neurologist threw his hands up in defeat and passed me off to another more qualified neurologist. Each visit came with more tests, medications to try, and more terrifying possible diagnoses. There were days we were terrified I would die and others I almost wished I would. We feared I could go blind, lose my memory, or develop locked in syndrome. Finally, after eleven months and nearly as many changes in diagnoses, we knew what was wrong, just not how to fix it, yet. My condition is chronic, but not terminal. It might get better, but will never completely subside. Eleven months after my definitive diagnosis, I am now on my sixth treatment option and finally have relief about 50% of the time. Through it all, in my most secret prayers, I begged the Lord to let me live long enough to become a real writer. Let me leave something behind that my boys can show their children. Let them see that sacrificing for your children does not mean you never achieve your own dreams.

I spent more time alone in bed than I ever wanted to and I found that I could write on my phone while laying down. All the times I used to pull out my phone to play some stupid game while waiting, I started to fill with recording my words on Google docs.

My urgency to start getting serious about writing only intensified when I lost my father in the midst of my health struggles. The realization that my father never got to see me achieve my goals was a sickening gut punch. I always wanted so much to make my dad proud of me and not being able to share my long hoped for success with him, ever, just about destroyed me. When my mother ended up in the hospital a few months later with a literal broken heart, I vowed I would not lose another parent before she could see me achieve success. Afterall, my love for literature blossomed in the long Sunday afternoons spent listening to my mother read aloud from the works of JRR Tolkien, Terry Brooks, and C.S. Lewis. I have often imagined the day I hand her my finished, published book and I get to see her eyes fill with tears as she reads my perfectly worded dedication to her and all she did to help fuel my love of literature.

But even with all the external reasons that inspire me to keep chasing my dreams, that isn't what keeps me writing after all these years. I keep pouring my words onto paper because it's who I am. In my day to day interactions, words often fail me or come out wrong. But when I have time to carefully craft my stories, time to rework and upgrade my thoughts, I feel powerful and articulate. I feel like I'm able to truly convey my feelings in a way that resonates with others how I intended. When I'm writing I feel the most like myself and my worries fade away. In the immediate days after my father's passing, the only comfort I found in my sleepless nights came as I sat at my keyboard. Memories, feelings, and tributes to the man who raised me poured forth in an intricately woven tapestry of words offering me an ultimately therapeutic outlet for my grief. While visiting Yellowstone and Rainier earlier this Summer, the beauty of the landscape made my head spin with the birth of characters and stories I longed to explore and give life to on paper. I finally came to realize one very important thing. I have written, I write, and I will continue to write through all my failures and successes not because I am chasing some lofty dream. I write because it's who I am. I write because as long as I can remember my fingers have itched to put words to paper.