Struggle to Write - Flashback to 1995

 [Originally published as a Write Now blog, this was written on 5/21/95, just before massive changes in my life.]

Struggle to Write

Thirty-seven years on shaky ground

Writing always sidetracked.  Marriage, kids, jobs, housework, procrastination.

Family transitional stages, depressions. 

            I’m responsible for my own dreams coming true, even if others stand back waiting for me to fall on my face. 

            As I made notes to myself concerning things to do during the course of next week, I realized I was doing it again.  'It' being, allowing my To Do list to overshadow my To Write list.

            The one constant in my life since I was a small child has been my love for writing.  My love for putting words together on a blank page until they tell a story. 

            And though this passion for the written word has consumed me for well over two decades, my efforts to get my material published has been half-hearted to say the least. 

            There was always something more important than going after what I wanted.

            First of course, there were homework assignments.  Math problems, French vocabulary, science projects.  God forbid I should get a C in French because I spent too much time on an essay for English. (My favorite class by far.)

            Then along came Bill, my husband.  Going through serious teen-aged angst, bombarded daily by problems with his parents, I felt compelled to be there for him.  To encourage him, listen to him, and finally, drop out of college and marry him at the age of nineteen. 

            Bill has always worked hard to support us.  When we were first wed, he held a day job at McDonalds, and a night job at Howard Johnson’s, just to make ends meet.  Naturally I got a job, not wanting to be a lazy, stereotypical lady of leisure.  It never occurred to me to try writing a magazine piece.  Of course, I was only nineteen, what experience did I have to speak of?

            Then our first child came along.  We were struggling financially, but Bill and I came to the conclusion that any job I might land would probably not cover the cost of a decent daycare, so I stayed home with the baby.

            Within six months of our son’s birth, we took in Bill’s grandmother who'd had a falling out with family members she’s been living with.  There I was in a one-bedroom apartment with a 6-month-old infant, a husband who was working himself senseless to support us already, and a grandmother sleeping on our sofa.  I’d written a couple of short stories by then and had submitted them to magazines.  I got them back.  Bill’s grandmother said: “Well, I guess that’s the end of that nonsense.”

            I looked around at the pile of laundry, my child snoozing in his playpen, Bill’s grandmother dusting the bookshelves, and nodded in agreement as I headed into the kitchen to begin preparing a less than modest dinner for us all.  Not only was my time at bare minimum, but I couldn’t afford the postage to keep sending manuscripts to editors just to have them sent back.

            Finally, we moved into a small house in the city of Wilmington.  Bill had gotten a job with a more generous employer and was working hard to pass night school so he could go on to earn his plumbing license.  There were times when he’d worked all day then had to go to class and then go on overtime calls.  I watched the toll mount.  His lunches were Spam or egg sandwiches with a Maalox chaser.  I always tried to make him feel special, while burying my dreams deep inside so my disappointment with getting nowhere wouldn’t show. 

            Then there were the months that I was consumed with potty training and ridding my house of mice and ants.  During that time, I did little writing.  Household chores and baby-rearing seemed all I could handle.

            When Bill was finally through with night school became an official journeyman his employer gave him a raise and we were doing all right financially. We decided it was time for a second child since little Billy was three.  

            Joey was born, and by the time he was a week old he was sleeping through the night.  I, on the other hand, must have been geared to rise for wee-hour feedings because I found myself lying in bed awake by four-thirty every day.  I decided on one of those sleepless mornings to make the most of my insomnia.  I got up and began writing a screenplay.  As I worked on it, I realized I needed answers to questions that books weren’t giving me.  I attended a screenwriting seminar in Philadelphia one weekend.  I sponged up everything Michael Hague had to say, and applied it to my screenplay work. 

            Writing from four to seven each day I completed two screenplays in as many years.  Only to find out as I began contacting production companies that screenplays are a penny a dozen and virtually impossible to sell. 

            I thought though, that perhaps it was my subject matter, and wrote yet another three screenplays while raising my boys, encouraging my husband to study for his mechanic's license and take the test. I knew if he struck out on his own, he could have a successful plumbing business and call his own shots. And I was right.

            I was awarded a job answering the business phone.

            This was a mixed blessing.  On the one hand, I hate talking on the phone.  Even as a teen-ager I hated talking on the phone (imagine!), and I cringe whenever I hear that nerve-grating electronic warble.  On the other hand, the phone tied me to the house and since my children were both in school, (Joey was in nursery school for a couple of hours a day), the job gave me time to write. 

            Several months after starting the business we moved to a new house with an extra bedroom we converted into an office.  (And no mice or ants to chase!)

            I expanded my best two screenplays into novels, gathered and polished up my several short stories, printed up my material and decided to go agent shopping. 

            I’ve sent out synopses packets to dozens of agencies and have come to the conclusion that agents are like everyone else.  They will pick an author with a book deal in the works before they’d pick an author who needs them to field one.     

            Two weeks ago, I decided to quit the phone work.  Aside from some personal reasons for quitting the job, I wanted to see if I could actually make money doing what I genuinely love, instead of pasting a smile on my face while answering that annoying warble. 

            I’ve put myself in a do or die position, financially.  I told Bill that I was giving myself a couple of months to make money writing, or I’d get a part time job.

            Though Bill is supportive on the surface I think in some ways he knows me better than I know myself and is waiting to see if I’ll fall on my face. 

            In the past two weeks (I did say I was going to take a little time for myself) I’ve sent off a magazine article and some greeting card sentiments.  Period.

            I’ve taken care of all the out-of-the-house chores I couldn’t do while tied to the phones during the days of the past six years. 

            I’ve splurged and visited relatives I haven’t been to see for the same reason. 

            I’ve been taking 1-1/2 hour walks each morning (I’m trying to lose 85 pounds that have accumulated during my 17-year marriage), and my laundry is even all caught up.

            It’s time already!  I woke up with an allergy attack three hours ago, and as I sat in my rec-room, draining, I couldn’t help trying to sort through my hang-ups.

            It’s easy to me to see why I’ve yet to achieve my dreams, and even easier to blame it on everything and everyone else in my life.  What it all boils down to is responsibility.

            My responsibility to myself.

            I remember nudging Bill when his confidence in himself waned.  “You’re wonderful at what you do!  You practically run your boss’ business!  Run your own!  Just take the step and do it!”

            He must have been so scared, then, with the whole family’s welfare riding on his success or failure.

            But my instincts about Bill were right.

            Just as I think my instincts about my writing are right.

            Well, my sinuses are just about drained and I’m getting a little sleepy.  Funny how a little thing likes an allergy attack can become a turning point in your life.

            I need to encourage myself just like I encourage my husband and sons; not to mention my mother, and my friends.

            I think I’ve earned my turn to work on my own dreams and make them come true.

            And sooner or later I’ll convince an editor of that.