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Monday, November 21, 2011

Why does the sea rush to shore?

People keep asking me why I wrote a book. There is no simple, easy or short answer.

I remember writing reams and reams of childish drivel on eight by eleven yellow pads when I was in elementary school. I remember people telling me along the way that I should write a book, but I felt that I didn't have a single idea or anything to say. A blank piece of paper terrified me.

I can recall in my working life feeling cheated, knowing, in fact, that I wasn't living up to my potential. Well aware of my shortcomings and overwhelmed by the circumstances of life I carried on in jobs where I was a square peg in a round hole.  Always the misfit. Then when all the dust settled, when things finally hit a bit of a stride again, albeit a dysfunctional stride - like walking with a cane or a crutch, but still vertical - I took one of those online tests. "What is your true calling?" Lo and behold, it came back that I had the heart of a writer. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I carried it around in the back of my mind for awhile. Coulda, woulda, shoulda.....yada..yada. Once thought about being an English teacher.  Once considered going into journalism. Once upon a time....

Then one lovely, sunny morning, standing on an "N" train into Manhattan, the whole thing landed in my brain. I had a story, my own story. OK, I can't make up fantasies, I'm no romantic and I know nothing of sci-fi. I couldn't care less about vampires. Soooo over that.  But I had a story, a real one. I always personally preferred true stories over fiction anyway. Not only did I have a story, but I felt it was, in some small way, relevant. That other people would derive some knowledge, perhaps, and certainly catharthis.  Anyone who has ever had a relationship (or one that failed) or a child (or one with a disability) could relate to something in my book. My book. My book.

It took me five years. I still had to work and I still had a disabled daughter to deal with. Still dealing with as a matter of fact. It doesn't seem to get much easier in spite of time. I did most of the writing while recuperating from surgeries. Yes, plural. Due to Rheumatoid Arthritis, in the last several years I have had to have some joints repaired. Feet, neck, hip.  It's been a tough road, but I can't stand daytime TV, I hardly watch TV at all, so writing was how I filled my time.

My husband seemed disappointed that the end result was only 160 pages. I was surprised, actually, that it was so short, I could have expanded. I could have added more people, more animals, more incidents. I could have delved more deeply into my own consciousness and added more details. I felt constrained by deadlines (I had to go back to work) and needed to get it done or I would always find an excuse. Obviously I didn't churn it out cookie-cutter style, it is not a formula book - I wrote from the heart. I deliberately tried to keep it succinct, to stay on point, to follow through from beginning to middle to end.  Longer isn't necessarily better. Sometimes longer is just....longer.

Why did I write it? Because I had to. I was something I had to do. And the funny thing is, when I thought that this was all I had, then came more. I have had several people who actually read "Astoria Story" ask if I am going to write another. I would like to. I already have a title in mind. The last ten years have been exceedingly interesting. There are two children's books I would like to write. And, surprise, surprise, there is a novel I would like to write. That will take alot of work and time.

Since I still have a "day job" I wonder what it is people really think. I have given several co-workers a copy of the book.  No one has given me any feedback.  Several dear friends from long ago have been very kind, but the people around me, who know me today, I just can't tell what is going on. They look at me like I have three heads. One person gushed to the point where I had to shush her. It was too much, so I assume it was all just phoney. And silence. Am I being mocked? Should I be embarrassed? Is it so horribly bad or is it good? It's an indie publication and I alternate between putting myself down for that and being pretty proud.

Why did I write it?  The same reason I am finishing my degree. I don't want to die without saying I did it. I am more than a high school graduate and I am more than a secretary. I am a writer. I am a writer, it is how I define myself and so I wrote a book.

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