This Wednesday, I am submitting something I wrote for a contest (and won a free magazine subscription.)
Because I'm still in some MAJOR pain from the dentist office.
It seems the new alloy used to produce bone in my mouth partially worked. I have 2 out of 6 screws in, and no teeth yet. So, back to square one, where they cut me open and stuffed my gum line with more alloy, then stitched me up (which I felt ever d@mn piercing of the suture as it crisscrossed across my mouth.) Needless to say, I am on three pain meds and none of them are working. I am NOT in a mood to write anything dashingly exciting or even clever at this moment.
On a side note: I am closing in on 20,000 words in Nanowrimo. And I have threaten to place my dentist in the role of the demented, sadistic villain. I can do that you know; I am a writer!
Anyway, without further adieu, here is my little snip of a post for open topic.
In moments of self-doubt, I’m haunted by her words.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Under my nose, my fifth grade teacher shook my original, handwritten, 125 loose leaf page story, bound together with scraps of scarlet yarn.
“Children your age don’t possess the ability to understand adult ideas.” Her acidic glare through dark framed glasses pinned me against a cabinet. “Where did you learn this?”
Before I could defend myself, the woman pinched her lips tight and examined me as an exterminator does a cockroach. “You’re an impertinent student and a deviant freak of nature. You’ll never possess the discipline to be successful author.”
Although I felt stung by the sharpness of her words, the tears came after hearing the hollow echo of my beautiful first book, tossed in to the old metal wastebasket.
So went my first experience as a writer.
Without a doubt, my muse raised its rebellious spirit to confront her challenge.
I will be a published author. My stories will be read, enjoyed, and cherished by others who feel alone. Different from everybody else.
Different. Like me.
I continued to write. I imagined how my stories would touch someone’s life with words of encouragement, to believe in ones self. It’s hard to survive in a world where you’re alone, afraid to hope or love because you believe yourself a deviant freak of nature.
For you see, the things that break an author’s heart are tools used to discover the passion within. This creates a voice conspicuous enough to whisper aloud from the printed words, thus seducing the reader’s soul.
In order for my dream to breathe, however, depended upon how well I learned life lessons through trials of angst, sorrow, and raw hardship. The adversity which I endured while in pursuit of my goal came in many forms:
*My decision to remain faithful to my personal morals forced me to give up my Journalism scholarship.
*I wailed as the jealousy of an abusive ex destroyed 10 years of written tales, cursing me with the prophecy that I’d never become an author because I was a loser.
*With misplaced trust, I fell for deception, believing my stories to be equivalent to a blasphemy. For over a decade, I ceased all writing, my sacrifice to purge the deviant, freakish sins.
Each tribulation added a flux of personal strength, an extra dose of tenacity, and a greater determination to my declaration of who I am, what I write, and why I write it.
And I know, upon the authenticity of publication, my life will change. To accomplish my goals and achieve my dream, I will feel the sweet satisfaction of vindication.
As for the people who swore I’d never succeed, I will let my freak flag fly in victory.
I’ll have greater self-confidence, increased faith in my abilities and announce with pride:
“I am a published author. My stories are read, enjoyed, and cherished by others who feel alone. Different from everybody else.
Different. Like me.”