Time to Honor the Life-Long Dream

Ever since I can remember, I've wanted to be able to call myself a writer. An author. When I was seven and eight years old, I wrote little stories about elves and fairies that lived near a stream. I wrote sappy poems. This continued until seventh grade when I departed from the usual and wrote a very weird story that involved a circus and death via high wire and trapeze. I gave it to my English teacher to read, hoping she'd give me some constructive feedback. That didn't happen. There was feedback, but it was simply "This isn't even plausible." Nothing more. I was disappointed, to say the least. And I stopped writing.

Then, when I was in college, I started writing again. I found writing classes to take, both poetry and short fiction. I had one professor write me a note about how he truly enjoyed my poetry. I had another professor tell me one of my short stories was first-rate. They both gave me encouragement and hope that maybe one day I'd see my dream of being a writer, and author, actually happen. 

When I graduated and went to work in a job I loathed, I wrote just to get through the days. It was at this job for which I wrote more technical type documents that I was asked what I really wanted to do with my life. I said be a writer. The person who asked me the question laughed, saying that was never going to happen as my writing left a lot to be desired. I stopped writing again.

After leaving this horrible job, I returned to school to work towards a Master's degree. A Master's in English. Again, I took all the fiction writing and poetry writing classes available, in addition to the literature classes that involved a lot of essay writing. Again, I had professors tell me I was a very capable writer. It was during this stint I wrote a short story that ended up being selected for discussion at a writer's conference workshop. The author who conducted the workshop pointed out all the things I did right with the story. I was floating on cloud 9 all day!  

Like with may people who have dreams, life interrupted. Marriage. Kids. Teaching others to become more effective writers. My own writing got pushed to the side. The dream of being a writer, though, never went away. It's always been at the back of my mind, poking at me now and then to tell me it's still there. Then, about ten years ago, an idea came to me and insisted I write the story. I did, and I sent it off to a small literary magazine. The editor accepted it. My first publication. 

Then another story followed and was published. Then a third. And a fourth. 

Then a short article about raising a tween. Then another article about cycling and finding peace on the bike.

Then a poem. And a couple more.

Presently I have a collection of interconnected short stories completed. I have a chapbook of poetry completed. And I have a memoir completed.

Still, I've found it difficult to call myself a writer. An author. For so long, I didn't believe the shorter pieces that were published count. I didn't believe the longer works that are currently unpublished count.

Now, though, I know they all do count. Now I know I am a writer. An author. And this year I am determined to publish each of the longer completed works as well as write the novel I've been dreaming of writing for several years.

Today, I finished the first chapter of the novel. I still have a long ways to go, but I have a start. Over the next few weeks, I'm going to get going on publishing the longer completed pieces. 

I will see my dream of being a writer, an author, through.