Week 4
More than 20 years ago, I began something I have never finished. Something I thought I had finished a couple of times. Back then, I suffered from an anxiety disorder called Agoraphobia. I only felt fully safe when I was at home. To venture far meant to risk an anxiety attack so severe I cannot begin to describe it. As my world became more isolated, the germ of an idea stirred in my head. It turned into a story that had the characters dancing constantly in my head. Finally, I knew the story needed a vehicle to take on a life of its own. I drug out my grandfather’s old portable typewriter and spent months sitting on the bathroom floor pounding away at the keys as if my life depended on it. At the time, I think it actually might have.
When I was finally satisfied that it was finished, I allowed my husband and my best friend to read it before locking it away. Lost in an anxiety riddled world, I didn’t want to do anything with it. I was satisfied just knowing that I had written it.
Little did I know that it would be 10 years before I would see it again! Going through boxes that we had moved multiple times, I found my manuscript. With an odd sense of detachment, I began to read it, not from the standpoint of an author, but from that of a reader. I didn’t make it more than a few pages before I went scrambling for a pen. I corrected, changed, embellished, fine-tuned and re-wrote until I was finally satisfied. Then I tucked it into a dresser drawer.
Less than a year later life threw another us another curveball. Our house caught fire and we lost almost everything we owned. While it was a simple matter of luck that our bedroom didn’t catch fire, most of what was in there was damaged or destroyed by smoke and water. Paper and water just do not mix well. I rescued what I could of it but there were large chunks of the story missing in the end. In frustration, I tossed it in a box with other things we salvaged.
Fast forward another year. I got my first computer! I was excited and frightened to pieces. I had never used a computer, outside of work, and I didn’t know how to do anything but turn it on the day I got it. It would be weeks before I discovered the word program and how to use it. It took several more weeks to hunt down that old mangled manuscript of mine.
For several months, I rewrote the story, filling in the gaps and changing many of the details. I remember my elation when I finally decided it was finished to my satisfaction. Ceremoniously, I tossed out the written copy as I surveyed my handiwork on the computer screen. Deciding it was worth having someone look at it, I began the arduous task of researching exactly how to go about submitting it to various publishing houses.
Yet again, tragedy struck only this time it was two-fold. I injured my right wrist at work which resulted in years of intense occupational therapy and multiple surgeries. And I did not back-up my computer, a term I had heard and didn’t understand at the time. You have probably guessed by now where this is going. Eventually the computer crashed and not knowing that what was on the hard drive could have been saved, my husband scooped the whole thing into the trash while I was at work one day. I can’t describe the utter frustration I felt when I discovered it was gone.
A couple of years, a new computer, and a couple of moves later, I happened to find pages from my original first draft in a box of keepsakes. I eyed it warily before shoving it in a drawer. For several weeks it sat there, almost taunting me, daring me to give it another try. The story bubbled around in my head so incessantly it even began to take over my dreams. Awake or asleep, I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t silence it. I felt as if the characters were demanding that I give them life before I could reclaim my own. With a sigh of capitulation, I pulled it out of its dark refuge and began to read. I was shocked at how rough the draft was. Poorly written, it wasn’t much more than an outline but I managed to make my way through it. When I finished reading it, I began at the beginning and started to write.
This time, was much slower than the previous times. I allowed the characters to breathe on their own. I allowed them to grow, just as I had so obviously grown since I first began my journey with them. I allowed the story to write itself, to shift and change and flow, in a way it hadn’t previously done. As time wore on, I came to really know the characters. I came to love them as I took them down new and different paths than the ones we had traveled together in the past. When I finally finished it, I was a bit saddened to find myself at the end of the story. Sadly I once again packed it away. I was emotionally drained. I was physically tired and I had just learned that we would be moving again.
Now, four years and a lifetime later, I dug out that old manuscript. Much to my chagrin, there are many pages missing. I have decided I am going to add it to my perseverance list for this year. I am going to start at the beginning and read what I have. I am going to MAKE the time to finish it one last time. When it’s finished this time, I’m going to be ready to submit it… somewhere… anywhere. I am NOT going to lock it away or lose it again. I am going to face my fear of rejection and believe in myself, and my writing, enough to at least try to get it published. To do otherwise is to kill the characters I have come to love so dearly.
