The book that nearly destroyed my spirit

In all innocence, an incredibly young me responded to a competition at school to write a short story and submit it to the headmaster to read and judge. As a budding writer, and receiving nothing but ridicule at home, I dived into this challenge with my whole heart and being.

The Story was called, Toby the Job Horse, and was inspired by the book-love of my life, Black Beauty. Ah, how many young hearts did the book and subsequent TV series enthral and inspire?

Of course, my effort was incredibly amateur but exceptionally heartfelt, and I poured my heart and soul into the writing of it.

When I handed my full school notebook in, the look on the headmaster's face was one I could only describe as horror. That felt like a punch in the face to me. Only hours later, did I realise he had probably only expected a page or two at most from the largely disintered students. His plan to inspire had backfired somewhat. Still, I held out great hope and looked forward to his feedback, even if I didn't win ... which I didn't expect to. At that point in my life no one in my family had ever encouraged me, but I'd found my love (writing)--an even greater love than that of reading. And I was determined.

Anyway, the days turned into weeks. The weeks turned into months. And no word at all from the headmaster. The winners were announced, and I waited with disappointment for my work of art to be returned to me, as promised. It never arrived.

Over the ensuing weeks, I lost all heart and joy. Eventually, miracle of miracles, my dad noticed. Finally, he came to ask what was wrong, and I broke down in tears, and managed, bit by bit, to explain about the missing story ... my first ever 'book'.

Yes, in hindsight, I know it was far from a masterpiece, and probably arduous to read, but still, it deserved respect. As did I. Unfortunately, it took me years to understand the respect part.

Enraged due to my complete distress and depression, and that I'd given up writing my 'silly' stories, my dad took the unprecedented step of going to the school and having it out with the headmaster, who ultimately admitted he'd lost the book. More tears and devastation from me when Dad came home and gave me the dreadful news.

Then and there, I declared I would never write again. And the headmaster's weak 'Sorry' just didn't cut it. His words meant nothing, and he had lost any and all respect I'd ever had for him.

Amazingly, about six months later ... yes, SIX MONTHS! ... he found the book and returned it to me in his office with a broad smile. I wonder if he ever understood my sullenness when taking hold of that detested notebook full of childish words, which he hadn't even been able to bring himself to read, cherish, or look after.

To this day, I regret deeply that the first thing I did when I got home, tears streaming down my face, was to tear that notebook to pieces and throw it in the bin. Toby the Job Horse was no more. He and his story were dead to me. Just as I was dead to the world. Nothing gave me joy anymore, and all the trials and tribulations of a messed-up family life wore me down like they never had before. Always, I had been the family mediator, the one to try her best to resolve arguments and brighten heavy atmospheres.

Now, I (told myself) I no longer cared. Of course, I did. However, it took a long time to see that.

I tried to write again in my late teens and early twenties but, again, met with ridicule and judgement from those around me. One person even equated the violence in my writing to be a reflection of my character. As you can imagine, that was the most hurtful and worrying of all. Once more, I gave up.

Only at age 40, after leaving the Zen Buddhist temple I'd lived and trained in for the past 13 years, and with a life-changing injury to deal with, did I begin to write. The Battle for Brisingamen was my first novel, and it received excellent reviews. And some kind folks gave me lots of constructive feedback. Oh boy, was I in for a steep learning curve after publishing my first ever book. But, for a change, I had confidence, and people's comments were helpful rather than embarrassing. I took everything to heart and transformed myself.

Soon after, The Glade was born, and it's cover won an award. As did the novel itself. At age forty, when I may have thought my life was over, my inner writer was born and thrived. My life began anew. I'm so pleased I found the crucial confidence to try again.

The first time I published here on Vocal I felt terrified and certain everyone would hate my work, despite the small successes of my novels. For certain, writing on Vocal has helped me to hone my short story telling skills hugely, and I'm so grateful to the community and the team for helping me along the way. Even better was when comments came into being on the platform. Now we can all learn and grow and be inspired together.

So, while poor old Toby is long dead and yet not quite forgotten, the passion for story telling has grown into its own being with its own life. And the writer lives, even if she has to slow down these days. When she can, she loves even more to come onto Vocal and read the many stories and poems on here, even though, sadly, at times she cannot always comment. But she does always heart at the very least.

Perhaps that early devastation planted a seed that germinated quietly in the darkness of despair, and waited until the conditions were ripe for that seed to sprout, bud, and bloom. For certain, it taught a young and unskilled writer to never give up hope. Never give up at all. Persevere, and you'll get there. Though it took a while to sink in.

While I cringe at my earlier writings, it shows me how much I've learnt and grown--otherwise, I wouldn't see anything wrong or cringeworthy, so even that is a blessing.

My heartfelt thanks go out to the writing community, and the Vocal community, for helping me and my writing with sage advice and such fantastic encouragement. Mostly, writing is a lonely occupation, yet we all have stories to tell and lessons to offer, as well as comfort and consolation when needed. Honestly, all of you keep me going and give me a reason to write. And my memories of Toby the Job Horse, and the headmaster who almost destroyed my spirit, have helped thicken my skin and keep me determined.

I hope you can relate to my experience and that, in some small way, it may encourage some of you. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading this short piece about a slice of my life and writing. With hugs and love, Harmony 💕😊