Writing

Late Night Ramblings of an Insomniac

I’m not tired.

I probably shouldn’t even call myself an insomniac at this point in my life because I rarely have bad nights anymore. And really, I’m just awake right now because I drank too much coffee, but that’s besides the point… for years I did have insomnia, and this reminds me of it and sounded like a great title, so it is what it is.

You are probably thinking that I should stop writing now, because I’m rambling about nothing.

You are probably correct.

But my husband prefers me talking to the internet right now than having me whisper, “Are you still awake?” every minute or so before entering into a rapid one-sided conversation at a speed that would rival any auctioneer. Or worse. Trying to stay silent while my eyes blink so rapidly that you can hear them.

So, I left the room to blog and now you will have to suffer. But, on the bright side, my marriage will be saved.

I’ve been in the mood to write more lately. This means my book is being worked on again. YAY!

Yes my finished book.

That I printed off… and then decided to change a character which meant deleting him out of half the book and entering a better version. So my “finished” book is now only 32,000 words and I now am at the halfway point… again.

BUT, oh, it’s SOOO much better! It WILL be worth the time I’ve spent on it. Plus, I can now enter in some really neat, post “COVID world” material which makes the book even more believable. I haven’t written or talked much about the book at all, mainly because I’ve been terrified at the thought of someone else stealing the idea I’ve worked so hard on and beating me to the editors. But, never fear, lucky readers… I am in the mood to share, so you’re in for a treat!

“Project Slone” was written as sort of a healing process to me after a very painful season in my life. Writing was my therapy. Poetry became my outlet. One of my objectives in the story was to awaken the love of poetry in young people and to expose the dangers of abusive leadership.  So, I dove in and created a fictional story set in a world not so different than our own, dominated by a tyrannical genius with a deeply flawed philosophy. The hero? A talented young writer and victim of the man, named Macy Grale, who becomes a uniquely poetic and modern-day Nellie Bly. To start, here’s a bit of an overview of the story, the ‘back of the book’ pitch, so to speak:

Macy Grale, has lived her whole life moving from Unit to Unit with her twin brother Sam. Knowing no other way of life – Sam embraces the community and thrives underneath their many caretakers. Macy, however, just can’t seem to fit the mold, feeling deep down that something is amiss in this strange place where talk of family is hushed and creativity is frowned upon. The peculiar community is actually one of many and was founded by the powerful and deeply admired Dr. Jacob Slone. It was built upon his Five Foundational Truths to stop “The Coming Catastrophe”. Only upon her Transition years, when Macy meets the doctor who brought her into the city, does she unlock the past secrets that haunt her dreams and discover for herself why Slone City must be abolished forever – but first, she needs to get the rest of the country on board. With irresistible courage and wisdom far beyond her years, Macy uses her gift of writing to open the eyes of the world around her to the horrors behind Slone’s walls, reminding them of the importance of love, family and beauty.

The book addresses culturally relevant topics such as the value of human life, leadership abuse, government involvement in society, broken families, and healing from past wounds that cannot be undone. 

Someday, it will be published… someday. But until then, I will patiently wait for bits of inspiration and write at times like this, when the house is quiet and my mind is alive. Which has now inspired me to say “goodnight blogging world!”

A book is waiting to be finished.

Writing

Quick Thoughts

This post will be short, as I have so little time these days, but rest assured, I’m still writing. I’m just mostly working on my book and putting thoughts too private to share in my journal.

However, I’m in a good place these days.

Sometimes I worry about those who go silent online, so I just figured I should say something about my recent silence. This is just for a season… I really want to get my book finished.

To be honest, I have four books going at once. One is almost done. Two are half done. The fourth is just barely started. They are all so different from each other. They are geared to different audiences, age groups, and written for entirely different reasons. I do this so I can keep writing. So that when I’m in a magical world sort of mood, I can write. When I’m in a spiritual moment, I can write. When I am thinking of political and culturally relevant matters, I write. When my heart is heavy, I write. When I’m feeling silly, I write.

No matter how I feel, there’s a book to be written.

So, you can see why I’ve been quiet here lately. I apologize to those who’ve missed me. Regular posting and reading others blogs will resume in a month or two. I do miss those I’ve connected with on WordPress.

Keep writing, your words matter. And your perseverance inspires many. We need each other desperately. Thanks for sticking around.

Love Always,

Heather

Christmas · Creative Writing · Published

Another Published Piece

Two years back, I entered in a short story competition in our local city paper. I won the $75 prize (staggering amount, I know…)

So this year I thought, “Hey, why not try again!”

I wrote a short story, which ended up becoming a medium length story… a tad longer than I had anticipated but I couldn’t bear to shorten it. It was a fictional piece, which a first for me I might add. Today once again, I found my piece published in the paper. This year I didn’t win, but I was runner up. Nothing huge, I know, but it does put a smile on my face.

Here’s the story, for those of you interested:

Tobias’ Letter

It was mid-November and the first snowflakes of the season were falling in graceful swirls, melting as quickly as they hit the ground. Tobias Williams shivered as he walked past Mardee’s Marvelous Toy Shop on his way to school. Glancing through the window, he saw exactly what he had begun to dread every single year. There, through the glass, he could see the extravagant holiday display of toys and decorations that were being set up along the shelves and a familiar knot began to form in his stomach. Tobias turned and began to run as fast as he could toward the school, willing his legs to carry him far away from the innocent display that would torment him for the next few weeks.

Having just turned ten, Tobias enjoyed many things that the other boys his age did. He loved candy, model cars, video games and Lego building sets. He enjoyed new baseball gloves and ice skates. He even liked comic strips and hockey cards. But there was one thing, which every ten-year-old boy loves, that he simply dreaded each year.

Tobias hated Christmas.

Not that he had always hated it. Although now a distant memory, Tobias could recall a time when he too had written long wish lists and awoken early on Christmas Day to open up a stack of brightly wrapped presents. He remembered trekking out into the wilderness with his family to find that perfect tree and kneeling together in the snow as they all took turns with the saw until the evergreen finally fell to the ground with a soft thud.

He still smiled when he remembered his parents despair upon bringing it into the living room, discovering that their perfect tree was leaning slightly to the left and had needles missing in patches all over. The tree had caused quite a disaster in his house that year when it had tipped over as they were decorating. Ornaments came crashing down around them and his father had had to turn the tree so that it leaned against the wall for support. His mother had been so embarrassed about that tree, lamenting about it to all her friends that they should’ve just bought an artificial one.

But to Tobias it had been perfect.

When the evergreen had finally been re-decorated, with its stunning tinsel, lights, and candy canes; magnificently topped with a glittering angel, he had been sure that a more beautiful tree could not possibly be found. On those days, early in the morning before anyone else in the house was awake, Tobias had snuck ever so quietly into the living room to plug in its lights. There he sat, gazing at the tree, in awe of the magic of Christmas. Little had he known that the crooked Christmas tree would be his last.

The following year Tobias’s life changed forever. That first week of January, Tobias had been staying at a friend’s place for night while his parents were out of town. Around midnight the call had come: There had been a devastating accident.  His beloved mother had been killed instantly. His father was critically injured. The doctor had been clear: Mr. Williams desperately needed surgery if he ever wanted the ability to walk again. However, with the funeral costs and the care he had already received, the bills had mounted. Though many of their friends had reached out to help, without insurance coverage or family around, the boy and his father were forced to go on government assistance and try to survive without the much-needed surgery. At the tender age of seven, Tobias had been left motherless and felt in many ways responsible to care for his crippled father. He tried his best to help out with the daily household chores but, alas, there was only so much a small boy could do.

For two years in a row, he had poured out his heart in his annual letters to Santa, explaining about how since his Mama had died and his Dad was hurt, they just couldn’t afford the things they used to. He had explained that toys didn’t matter much to him anymore, but how he missed having a Christmas tree with its sparkling lights. He had told Santa that it didn’t need to be much, even a new pair of boots would be nice, as his had holes, leaving his feet cold and wet at the end of every recess.

And each Christmas, as the holidays had come and gone, all his friends returned to school with their lists answered. Some had brand new video games and iPads. Others had received large building sets and expensive RC cars. In fact, they had received every single item on their wish lists. And for the second year in a row, he had received nothing but a hand-me-down sweater and a pair of socks.

The truth had been painfully clear: Santa Claus simply didn’t care about poor children like Tobias. This year he wasn’t going to waste his time. He would NOT be writing a letter to Santa.

The next few weeks flew by. When Ms. Hannah Patterson announced the Christmas writing assignment to her classroom, the children got right to work making their elaborate letters to Santa. She had just settled into her seat and began to mark the ever-growing pile of papers on her desk, when, turning around she looked into the eyes of a young boy who was speaking so quietly she couldn’t make out his question.

“Can you repeat that please, Tobias?”

“Ms. Patterson,” the boy repeated a little louder, but still softly enough that she had to lean in to hear, “Would you mind if I would write to someone other than Santa?”

“What do you mean Tobias?”

“I mean, I don’t mind writing out my wishes, but can it be to someone else?”

Ms. Patterson smiled knowingly. Of course, the boy had probably found out the truth about old Saint Nicolas and felt foolish writing a note to a fairytale man.

She shrugged. “Sure, write a different name at the top if you like, but please make sure you still do the assignment.”

“Thank you, Ms. Patterson,” said the boy, the relief on his face evident. The teacher stared at the unkept boy for a moment thoughtfully, then shook her head and chuckled to herself before going back to her marking.

Later, long after the students had been dismissed, Hannah sat at her desk looking through the stack of letters her students had written. She had always loved giving the “Note to Santa” assignment. It was one that few kids complained about. What was not to love about listing off all your favorite toys and wishes to a lovable, gift-giving, old man?

Today, however, she scanned for a different letter. Tobias Williams was a quiet child and though she had heard a bit about his mother’s death a few years prior, she knew very little about the boy who rarely said a word in class. But his strange request earlier that day had caught her off guard and now, as she searched for his letter she found herself feeling rather sorry for the young lad.

Ah, yes. There it is. Hannah thought to herself as she began to read the carefully written child-like print:

Dear Jesus,

I don’t know if this letter will do any good, because my ones to Santa didn’t, but I thought I’d try anyways because I heard someone say that you were also poor so I figured that maybe you’d care. Also, I have to do this for school. And I’m NOT writing to Santa. My Mama died three years ago, but then, I suppose you already know that because she lives with you, right? Or is heaven made up too? I hope it’s real, because I miss her a lot. I even miss that tree she hated. Could you get me another tree like that? I’d even like it if it were crooked, with candy canes, and that sparkly angel. Also, could you help my Daddy? I sometimes hear him crying at night. I think he’d be happy if we had a special dinner, like Mama used to make. I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you could also make a way for my Daddy to get that surgery he’s been needing, that would mean more to me than anything else I could get. I just want things to be the way they were, when my mom was around and he could walk. I think that’s enough things to ask for. Thanks.

Sincerely, Tobias Williams

Hannah’s vision blurred as she finished the letter and thoughts began swirling in her mind. The tears kept coming as she gathered her things to go home for the evening, as she locked up her classroom and on her drive home. When she lay in bed that night, her mind could think of nothing else but Tobias’s letter.

By the next morning, Hannah had made up her mind and, reaching for her phone, she made three important calls. The first, to Tobias’ father, who tearfully listened to his son’s words, reluctantly giving his consent for her to share them. The second was to the local pastor, who after hearing the note, agreed wholeheartedly to help with her plan. As Hannah dialed the last number on her list, she breathed a silent prayer as the phone rang on the other end.”

“Hello, TCC News, how may I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Hannah Patterson. I’m an elementary teacher at the Stoneville Academy and I have I story that I think your station is going to want to hear…”

 

Tobias stirred and opened his eyes a crack as the morning light shone into his window. It was Christmas day. He exhaled slowly, painfully. Though he had waited all week, his letter had proven as useless as the ones to Santa. There was just no reason to hope anymore. Life would never be the same. He sadly turned over, pulling the blanket over his head and had just started drifting back to sleep when he thought he heard a funny sound. He lifted the blankets and listened. Muffled voices. A soft chuckle. A loud scraping noise.

What in the world was going on?

Slowly, cautiously, Tobias crept out of his bed and down the hall. He heard a voice hushing the others. More giggles. Coming around the corner, Tobias could hardly believe his eyes. There, in the middle of a living room full of smiling people and reporters with cameras, was the most beautiful – and slightly crooked Christmas tree he had ever seen. His gaze drifted to the base of the tree. Presents! He turned around, scanning the kitchen countertop which was usually bare. Now it was overflowing with Christmas food, homemade baking and delicious store-bought treats, enough to last for the rest of the month! Maybe even the month after. Finally, his gaze rested on his father’s smiling face in the middle of the room.

“Whaa..what’s all this for?” Tobias stammered in astonishment.

His father wheeled across the room and took Tobias into his arms. “Merry Christmas son! Wasn’t this your Christmas wish?”

The young boy stepped back and once again looked around at everything in disbelief.

“That’s not all,” his dad gently motioned to the large crowd of people who filled the small room, “The community has heard about your Christmas wish…” Mr. Williams swallowed hard and his eyes grew moist. “Tobias, they’re paying for the surgery.” Overcome with emotion, the man put his hand over his face and his shoulders shook with sobs. Tobias rushed into his father’s arms and a hush fell over the room as the pair wept together.

Finally pulling back, Tobias searched his father’s face for answers, “How could this be? I mean, how did they…” His voice faded out as Hannah Patterson stepped forward, and suddenly Tobias knew.

“You read my letter?” Tobias murmured, looking up at her through his tears.

Hannah’s eyes grew moist and she nodded, adding with a whisper, “But more importantly Tobias, Jesus heard your prayers.”

 

Authenticity · Blogging

Blogging Popularity

I was naive when I started blogging.

Early on, when I still was in the Facebook world, I got a lot of views. In fact, sometimes hundreds of views a day. I figured that starting off with such popularity was a sure ticket to my success. After all, my writing was still pretty rocky at first. I had a long way to go and a lot of improvements to make. Nevertheless, deep down, I truly believed one of my posts would one day go viral and I would have an easy path to becoming a famous writer.

Call me a quitter.

Call me a pessimist.

Call me impatient.

But I’m loosing all desire to blog for numbers.

In fact, new followers mean very little to me. Unless, of course, I get to know them through their blogs and comments. In that case, there’s nothing that delights me more than a person who actually reads and responds thoughtfully to my posts. I love reading the posts of these authors as they seem to have a depth that much of the blogging world is missing.

So the question is why, in a mostly positive community of writers, would I feel a lack of passion and drive to keep growing my readers?

I guess you can say I’m realizing a lot about WordPress. Somethings are good. Some are not so good.

Good, like for instance, I have never once had a negative comment on one of my posts. In fact, I believe every single comment on WordPress has been encouraging, uplifting and positive. It’s as if this world of blogging still believes in the magical words we used to all try to live by: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

I definitely can’t say the same for the comments I got on Facebook.

But there are still some things that are frustrating to me. Am I wrong in noticing that the people with the most followers on WordPress aren’t the best writers? They are merely the writers with the most quantity? Multiple, mindless posts a day, just to gain more, more, and more followers.

As a lover of good writing, this saddens me.

There also seem to be far too many people who scroll down and follow everyone, just to gain more followers themselves. Who click “like” on every post without reading a single one. It makes me feel as if all my readers have hidden motivates, only reading and commenting to boost their own popularity.

It’s kind of a depressing thought. I don’t really want a part in that side of blogging. So the question is why am I still posting on WordPress?

Because I love writing.

I want to grow in my abilities.

I want to make connections through my writing.

I wish to receive feedback.

And I long to encourage others as well.

I’m not here to become famous. I’m just here to write.

Today, I needed to remind myself of this again. And I wonder if possibly, someone else out there needed the reminder too.

Writing

Eating My Humble Pie

I’ve always loved a good slice of pie.

As we all know, some pies taste better than others. There’s the premium kind Mom serves at gatherings. It has the perfect crust with that smooth, but slightly flaky texture, so easy to swallow. The filling is sweet, with just the right spices. Then there’s the bakery pies. Delicious, but not quite the same as Mom makes it. And then there’s the pie from the convenience store, which has a shelf life of a decade and tastes like it too.

Humble pie tastes more like the convince store baking. And it’s not sweet, so the sugar can’t hide the flavour… it’s more like a dinner pie made with mixed veggies. Ugh. To top it off, these days I feel like I’m skipping the slice and eating the whole thing at once. And it doesn’t sit well.

Still, there are a few areas where I manage to feel immensely proud.

It just depends where I look.

The source of my pride is and always will be my children. They continually amaze me with their remarkable talents and personalities. Those who lack in “skill” most certainly make up for it in character.

Last week we received their report cards.

My oldest son, Isaiah did fine in his grades… especially after we handed in a couple of late assignments. But what pleased me most is when the teacher talked about the character of my young man. Respectful, thoughtful, always looking to put others first. He said that Isaiah has a good heart, both tender and wise. Trust me, when these words are said about your 13-year-old-boy, you listen.

My daughter got 100% on everything. A perfect report card. I hadn’t known that was possible until last week, but no matter how many times I blinked, there it was. I was more of an 70s/80s kid myself. She got chosen as one of the two girls in her grade at school to attend a STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Math) event.

My next son, stuck right in the middle of five kids, excelled in his grades too. Jonas’ teacher was most astonished at his abilities in Mathematics. She said not only was he a leap ahead of everyone else, but he was brilliant, showing her and the class new methods to figure out problems that she hadn’t ever heard of in over a decade of teaching.

Dallas is also strong in math. He did really good in his other work as well, but he’s also our athletic one. Tells me he’s the fastest boy in his class. Whether this proves to be true, I have yet to see. But I don’t doubt it. He’s always kept me running.

And Emerson, my baby. He amazed me by learning the game of chess when he was four. By the time he was five, he could beat everyone in our family. His teacher was quite stunned when he showed off his skills at school, said that most kindergarteners can’t even grasp the game, never mind master it.

They’re not perfect. No-sir-ree. Sometimes their bickering drives me batty. And when they leave dirty socks on the kitchen counter I want to pull my hair out. But I’m proud of them, because when it comes down to it, they’re amazing people. I feel honored to be called their mother.

Now for the part you’ve all been waiting for:

HUMBLE PIE.

Because no one wants to hear how everyone else is excelling.

We wait for the grit.

We love the grit.

Especially when things aren’t going too great in our own lives.

I think it’s a social media thing: others successes making us feel like epic failures. If we lived face to face with our friends successes, we would feel along with their joy. Now we just watch from a 6″ window into their lives and feel shame.

And in some ways, we should. For having false expectations.

Social media will never give us true relationships because it is only a snapshot into the lives of those around us. The only way social media can become something more is if we decide to finally open the window further and give others a real look into our lives.

So let me open my window further for you…

I’ve been reading a lot lately and it made me realize something: I’m not very good at writing.

Ouch.

Did I really just say that? On WordPress? Among authors? As the handful of followers I have stampede away in droves…

That’s right.

You’re following an average joe. A stay at home mother, whose best accomplishment will most likely be raising five kids. Which is probably a good thing in a generation of fame seeking narcissists.

Don’t get me wrong… I want to be a bestseller. And for much of my life I believed I would be. But now, as I read my work compared to so many good authors, it’s pretty obvious: The wit, brilliance and effortless beauty that seems to come naturally to so many, has most definitely not been bestowed upon me.

I mean, I’ve had my moments.

I won second place in a local city competition for short stories and got a piece published in the paper. My high school teacher kept my best poems and says she still shows them off once in a while. I’m known to be authentic in my writing, which is what I want most of all. I once got a thousand views on a post I wrote. Must’ve been shared by the right person.

By the way, this isn’t me giving up. This is me getting real and putting an honest word out there to writers everywhere…

We just aren’t as good as we want to be.

Journaling my thoughts is one of the most amazing and effortless things I can think of. This makes me a natural writer. My best pieces come out of journal entries and poetry I’ve written. But writing for an audience is tough, gruelling and painful. This is the difference between a natural writer and a published one.

Writing my story was simple. Ok relatively simple.

But editing it and admitting that almost half of my story needs to get shuffled around or rewritten before it faces the publishers has been daunting. I mean, I thought I already finished the work! Now I read and reread every sentence until the words blur together and seem meaningless. But this work is necessary if I want it to be the best.

Almost makes me feel guilty for the way I’ve read books in the past; skipping over pages to get to the good parts. Those authors deserved more than a quick skim of the words they mulled over and over again.

As a result, I’m now back to 30,000 words on my book. Down from just over 85,000. But they’re a promising 30,000 words. They mark my best work. Worthy to be published.

At least I think they are. Maybe the publishers will feed me more humble pie. In fact, I’m expecting it. But it’s not the worst thing that could happen to me. The worst thing would be for me to stop eating at all for fear of being giving this bitter tasting food.

Humble pie may not taste great, but I’ve found it is the most nourishing food for the soul. It’s nothing, if not filling. And it even teaches me; inspiring me to be honest with myself and to learn from my mistakes.

Given enough time, humble pie actually doesn’t look as bad as it sounds. The fact of the matter is, eating humble pie may be my best chance of becoming that bestseller. It might even end up being the key to my success. So, I’m going to eat my pie and enjoy this meal, knowing that someday, I’m going to get a taste of Mom’s Homemade pie again. Until then, this humble pie will keep me alive, so I will be grateful for it.

I may even ask for seconds.

Creative Writing

I Almost Gave Up On My Book

Writing is a largely thankless and daunting task. One that many dive into for no reason other than the fact that deep, deep down they know without a doubt that their words are meant to be written. Their stories just need to be told. It always amazes me how many writers press on through the day to day discouragement, though many times alone.

A few months ago, I almost quit the book I’ve been working on for almost two years now.

What might have brought me to this point, you may ask?

Well, if you’ve read any of my posts about my hopeless computer (which hates me by the way), you will know that multiple times now the hard drive has failed. And, like a person stuck in a bad relationship, I keep coming back for more thinking that this time maybe it will be different. As a result of my stubborn hopefulness, my work has been all but lost many times. And then, my computer genius of a husband swoops in to save the day and restore everything to working order.

But even Superheroes have a limit.

After the third time this happened, I could no longer blame my computer or excuse these unfortunate events as ignorance on my part. It was plain stupidity to not back up my files. My frustrated husband understandably took extra time trying to find the files and reinstall my writing program. In fact, that he was willing to do it yet again is a testimony of his love for me. But, in the meantime (for about six months) I was unable to work on my story.

At first, I saw this as a curse…

Until I recently read my book, I kid you not, written by somebody else. Now, I had heard of the well known series whose author seemed to read my mind…and hadn’t a hot clue what it was about until reading it this summer.

Reading that series crushed me, for the author had basically “copied” the main idea of my super “original” novel (ok I know, I know… it wasn’t copying me as it was published and written LONG before I came up with the idea…but still!)

It was as if the author had jumped into my head and completely taken my ideas out of context and then, to make matters worse, put a very disgusting romance in the mix with a touchy-feely couple that annoyed me to tears and made me want to throw up all at once.

And after reading her series, I seriously contemplated deleting mine. Who wants to be known as the author who tried to copy a hit series?? Who would even want to publish a work that seems so eerily similar to another…that almost everyone has already read?!? (Except for yours truly apparently).

Sigh.

I was about to delete it, but then, thankfully my thirteen year old boy begged me not to.

“I don’t care if you don’t publish it,” he said, “I still want to read it!”

That, my friends, is why every author needs a team behind them. His words sent me on a new mission: To salvage what I could of the originality story line and characters in my book and to make just enough changes that it won’t be mistaken for a “wanna be” version of another series. And it was this very situation, ironically, that helped me to overcome my six month “writing pause”.

The book that I am currently working on is the first in a three part series about a dangerous ideology regarding child-rearing and one mans “solution to the problem”. Macy Grale, knows something is amiss in the city named after the famous Dr. Jacob Slone, which was built upon his Five Foundational Truths. But only when she meets the doctor who brought her into the city, does she unlock the past secrets that haunt her dreams and discover for herself why Slone City is destined to collapse. Macy must use her gift of writing to open the eyes of the world around her to the truth behind the walls of Slone, reminding them of the importance of love, family and beauty.

After many hours, I am so close to being done, I can almost taste it. Today I finally printed out the first of many drafts and quickly sketched up a cover (which will be digitally improved upon of course)!

And you, my faithful readers will be the very first people to see it:

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There it is people! My first draft, with many, many errors, I’m sure! But it’s there. And that’s what matters.

If you have any experience on what my next steps should be in getting this published, PLEASE help me!! I know nothing about editing or publishing so I need your advice!

Thank you to all who have been so encouraging and supportive on my blog! This book wouldn’t have happened without you.

Uncategorized

A Short Summer, A Long Bucket List and Three Half Finished Novels…

Summer is almost over.

Since when do I literally panic at those words?!? I have a real desire to move somewhere hot for September, October and November and live in denial that it will ever end.

Summer in Canada is ridiculously short, but like most things, that’s what makes it so irresistibly sweet. We bear through a bitter six months of winter – half hibernating, half shriveling away in the arctic air and then after being soaked in the rain for a month or two, we finally can enjoy SUMMER. Children burst out of their homes, not a minute to lose! Playgrounds which were eerily empty and abandoned for the frosty months come to life. White legs stampede to the beaches. We book our holidays months in advance, being sure to make the most of every single second.

For the past two years, my kids and I have made a summer bucket list. It’s nothing crazy, no big life changing events are on the list, but it’s about 25 activities long and therefore, always is a rush to complete.

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This time, however, it isn’t so much the weather change that I am dreading, or even failing to check off every box on our list; it’s the realization that summer is almost gone and with it another year of my failed goal: to finish my first novel.

Oh, by the way, I am writing a book.

Actually three.

Cue the awkward pause as people nod politely and change the subject…

And in many ways I don’t blame themPublishing a novel and making any sort of career out of it, never mind actually becoming a bestselling author is almost like a child claiming they’ll grow up to be a movie star…😏 “Mmmhmmm, sure sweetie, you do that!”

Yet I have had this desire from the moment I could write words on a page and form them into something resembling a sentence.

I remember writing my first story in grade 2. My peers wrote their opening words, the only ones that could possibly be used to start a story at that age: “Once upon a time…” And I knew even then that that didn’t cut it. Already, at age seven, I knew that wasn’t the way to write a book. Not a good one. I still remember my teacher’s surprise when she read my opening line: “The sun shone warmly on little Jessica’s face, her dark hair blowing in the summer breeze…”  I remember her reading it to the class, devouring my writing as if it were a rare exotic treat. I felt gifted, as if I were a prodigy of writing, sure to blow the rest of the world away with my cleverly thought out plots and well-structured sentences. Only to find out in my teens that I actually had a long way to go before I would ever publish my work.

But maybe that’s why I’ve always loved it. It’s challenging, and still relaxing for me. It takes effort, yet is in some ways rather effortless. Not to mention, it is also the only talent I ever remember being noticed for in school.

But the funny thing is, I’ve never finished a full novel.  I’ve had countless ideas, some that eventually fell rather flat, some that took off. Until, well… I got near the end.  Every single time I’ve come close to finishing, I give up.  Eventually, after years of sitting in an unopened file on my computer I click delete.

I don’t really know why. But it’s as if I fear what will happen if I finish. So I finish…then what?

Perhaps, it’s partly because I think it’s childish, this dream to write.  Because writing isn’t a real job, right? More like an eccentric hobby for the most lonely of introverts, those crazy ones, who’ve never quite given up their childish imagination.

But even scarier to me is the thought that keeps plaguing me: If I do in fact finish it, will anyone actually read my book? Will they have any interest? Or will I finally be publicly exposed for the wannabe writer that I really am? Should I just grow up already and let go of my childish dreams?

However this time, I am further than I’ve ever been before. In all three books. And even though I’ve been working on them for months (ok one of them I’ve been working on for years!), I feel like I actually really like my work. I am proud of the writing I’ve done. And I feel like others may like them as well.

So summer, please stay a little longer. Don’t hurry away. Let the days slow down and the workload pause. Let me finish the bucket list. Let me enjoy my kiddos. Let me finish my novels. Ok, maybe just one of them.

Because I really want to know how it ends, and, even more so, if others will enjoy reading it as much as I do.