It’s been a little more than four years since I first began writing my blog. I spent my first year of retirement working sporadically on a book that I had wanted to write for years and somewhere along the way I hit a brick wall. I struggled to convey the emotion that I had hoped would become the heart of the story. I needed some guidance but had no idea where to turn. It was then that I noticed that the Rice University Glasscock School of Continuing Education offered a day long seminar for people like me who wanted to improve their craft and learn how to one day publish their work. I signed up immediately with Mike’s blessing even though the course was far more expensive than most of their offerings.
The class itself turned out to be frustrating on many levels. When I arrived late because I had become disoriented while attempting to follow a poorly designed campus map, all eyes turned on me with looks of undisguised irritation. I apologetically slinked into the first available seat and marveled at how many people appeared to share my dream of becoming an author. The room was packed with bestseller wannabes.
The guest speaker began her monologue much like a professor of freshman English by warning of the unlikelihood that any of us would ever live to see our words in print. She warned that the world of publishing and bookselling was changing everyday in ways that did not bode well for the fledgling author. She insisted that someone famous might create a work unworthy of lining a birdcage and hit the top of the New York Times bestseller list based solely on name recognition rather than talent, while a gifted but unknown author may never be discovered. The emphasis of the remainder of her remarks would focus on what it takes to be noticed in today’s dog eat dog market.
In an effort to relax us after frightening us, the instructor gave each attendee the opportunity to share a few words about the type of book he/she was writing. She patiently listened to person after person, providing encouragement and ideas. She laughed, smiled and applauded, noting that there were definitely going to be some winners from our obviously talented group. When it was my turn I nervously described the general outline and purpose of my memoir, expecting to feel better about my efforts once she gave me the proverbial pat on the back that she had extended to everyone else. Instead her face remained emotionless and without so much as a word she moved to the next person.
I felt like the class dunce as one after another fledgling author received the praise that had been denied me. I wondered if I was deluding myself into thinking that I had anything of worth to say. It was not until the break that I regained my composure. That’s when several of the participants approached me to admit that they would be anxiously awaiting the day when they might read my book. Each of them had personal stories of encounters with mental illness. One woman in particular confided that her twenty something son had become a recluse in her home, writing science fiction works for therapy. She had come to the class to learn how to distribute his stories to the public in the hopes of giving him a life goal. She literally began to cry as she urged me to continue with my quest to show the world how a family manages to triumph over diseases of the mind.
For the remainder of the session I learned all the reasons why it would be up to me to convince the world that I have a knack when it comes to composing with words. Our instructor suggested that one of the easiest ways to show people that our works are worth their time is to write a blog. At that moment I decided that I would try my hand at becoming an Internet journalist of sorts.
Since that fateful weekend I have arisen each weekday morning to write about this or that. I’ve watched for ideas virtually everywhere that I go. I’ve carried my laptop to campgrounds, airports, doctors’ offices, Starbuck’s, McDonald’s and all four corners of these United States. Mostly though, I’ve sat in my living room listening to sounds of the parade of humanity outside my home and I have opened up the contents of my heart for all to see. I’m not certain that I have expanded my fame as a writer but I have certainly become better at the one thing that I most enjoy doing.
In those early days of four years ago I drew on family experiences and whatever I happened to be doing at the time for my inspiration. I knew that I was hooked on the idea of being a low rent columnist when I sat in a tent one evening typing away in the middle of a raging thunderstorm. It never occurred to me that I might be struck by lightening or even electrocuted as I told the world about my angst in relying on the protection of a leaky tent whose roof was collapsing and corners were taking on water at an ominous rate. I only knew that the mere fact of describing and sharing my experience provided me with inexplicable happiness.
I’ve been at it now for so long now that I fear that I’m beginning to sound like a dotty old aunt who repeats her stories so many times that everyone in the room knows exactly what is coming next. I fear that my readers’ minds glaze over each time they see the second or third verse of what seems to be the same song. My website once hit a peak of five hundred visits each and every day. Over time my blogs were viewed over 800,000 times. Knowing that I had fans was a giddy feeling and made me believe that one day my book will be a huge success. Sadly, without warning, my readership began to slide. I modernized my page and appealed to my readers to continue to follow me but perhaps I have outlived my brief fame at just the time when I am so close to launching my book. The fear that I felt when the writing teacher showed no interest in what I was creating has returned. I wonder if I have been taking my time in completing a task that I began so long ago because I have lost my confidence in its worth. The writer’s dilemma is knowing when and where and how to share the personal thoughts that they have etched onto the virtual paper of a computer screen. It is admittedly a frightening prospect because all the world is a critic.
I am within fifty pages of completing the revisions on my book. It is both an exciting and a humbling task. After one more quick read to check for typos, spelling mistakes and punctuation errors I will be ready to format my work. I need to design a cover and insert photos, something that I have no idea how to do but will somehow learn. Then my memoir will debut. It’s so close that I can feel it and I’m quite nervous. My greatest fear is that once it is available the public response will be just like that of the writing guru who so quickly dismissed the worth of my idea four years ago. That would be devastating. I sometimes wonder if my efforts will be greeted with crickets or thunderous applause. The only way to find out will be to finally complete the task.
I find that people are often just as afraid of writing as they are of mathematics. Because putting ideas into words is therapy for me, I find it difficult to understand why anyone would be reluctant to become an author. I suspect that I would write even if not a single person were to read my finished product. The process of creating a written record helps me to organize my thinking and gives me a purpose. If I happen to create something that appeals to others as well, that is all the better.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 