December 19, 2014
Prompt: Tell me about the price you pay (or have paid) for being a writer.
I began to write because I had a wonderful English teacher in the eighth grade, the late Elizabeth Connellan. Besides all the readings and memorizing vocabulary, our teacher emphasizes good writing, including creative writing. In the fall New Haven, (CT) used to have a Harvest Festival, which centered on the big football game between the rival teams of Hillhouse and Wilbur L. Cross HS. Along with the game were poster contests, poetry contests, and the Thanksgiving Prayer contest, which was especially for junior high students. One day in class, we were given our assignment, to write a Thanksgiving Prayer, which would be sent in to the citywide contest. I WON! I WON! I WON!
I was flabbergasted! A reporter from the New Haven Register, who asked about my family, my interests, etc, interviewed me. Dad accompanied me. I was featured in the official program book for the weeklong celebration. Then we went on with life as usual. However, I started writing for contests, civics, speeches, debate club.
I started writing creatively after my cousin Andy died. I know that I idealized him after he was gone, and that it took a long, long time to accept that he was a very good kid, almost another brother, who was stricken with cancer before there were effective cures. I wrote a 12-15 page set of essays and some poems. I kept them with my diary, which was another type of writing altogether.
My voice was silent at home or silenced. I was not thought to have anything worth saying. In the religious community, reading novels or writing poetry was considered frivolous and worldly. After f five more years, I was bursting from my shell. It wasn’t delicate like a chick hatching from its egg. It was like an oozing, dripping wound, which never closed.
Back at home, I wrote a great deal. I even include my feelings. Skip ahead. After the children came, I decided to take up my writing again and see where it led me. I wrote poem after poem, about serious subjects. My interior life, which had been full to overflowing thrived on the writing. Hubby hated and resented this. He thought reading was a waste, forbade it (but we all know how to secretly read what we want to read.) He thought writing wouldn’t bring in any money. Then I shifted into longer manuscripts, the “inspirational booklets.” Hubby would not let me buy typing paper (even though, who do you think typed his thesis on unnameable chemical?) He wouldn’t let me buy stamps. My friends gave me paper which they bought for me; I “stole” stamps from the big tolls we kept. I sent out manuscripts with SASA (self-addressed stamped envelopes), mailed them at the mailbox down our driveway, and hoped against hope that the returns/rejections would arrive on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, so that he wouldn’t see them. By some good alignment of the stars, Hubby was on a business trip when I received the letter of acceptance about publication of my first book. The kids, Mom, Dad, and I went out to lunch.
The bottom line is that I write what I write, because I just do. After the divorce, I wrote a little booklet in a month and it was grabbed up quickly – one of my best. These days I have quite a number of projects in mind, and feel a need to prioritize. It is hard work; I love it; sometimes it makes me VERY happy; other times it exercises my critical thinking; other times, it is like a “feather on the breath of God.” And I have to write. It is my gift. I do not compare with others, or judge others, and I try to be patient with myself.
It would be really nice my dear ones cared more about my writing, but I can’t help that …. I do not do magic.