Dreams and Determination

From the time I could read and write I wanted to be an author. Four feet tall with a pencil and notepad, I wrote observations, quotes, and even interviewed friends and family with a make-believe microphone in my hand. I meticulously practiced my autograph for all my adoring fans.

I joined the Young Author’s Club in elementary school and jumped at the chance to attend the annual conference at the local university. Enthusiasm oozed through my veins. I was a pint-sized girl with a lot of pizzazz. As a Young Author club member, I toiled over my story complete with laminated cover and title page. My mother had just sewn me a cute spring dress with cotton fabric riddled with bright red strawberries. I proudly used the leftover fabric to complete the decor for my book cover.

When the weekend of the Young Author’s Conference arrived, some of my confidence and resolve had worn away. Timid and afraid, I entered the classroom and slipped into a chair right up front. My floppy book lay atop the cream-colored surface of the table in front of my dangling legs. The guest author introduced himself and, before I knew what was happening, had picked up my book and flipped through it.

“What do the red strawberries on the front cover have to do with the story?” They didn’t have anything to do with it. I had simply used the supplies available. “You’ll never be a writer.” I heard him say. I sat dumbfounded wishing I could disappear into my seat.

For the life of me I can’t figure why he would say those words to a child. But I never forgot them.

I’ve had the opportunity to do and be a part of many cool things over the years; but I never wrote another story. I tried but fear crippled me.

Thirty-some years later, I came across the “shameful” strawberry-clad storybook. In surprise and trepidation, I opened the cover and read its contents. There was the title page with my glorious signature. But when I reached the last page, I had to laugh. The story really was horrible. It didn’t make sense. Much older and wiser, I have to speculate that my version of the encounter in the classroom was skewed somehow. But the truth is: writing takes work. I needed to hone my trade. Flex my proverbial (finger) muscles.

Now here I am all these years later, rolling up my sleeves. Determined. Ready. Pen in hand (well, actually hands on keyboard), ready to do the thing that has terrorized me for years.

What about you? Do you have a dream you’ve let fall by the wayside? Could now be the time to take the bull by the horns?

This is me, following my dream, in this crazy thing called life. I hope you’ll join me.