Don't Make Waves

My already published writer cousin, Linda, emails me that she plans to start a serious campaign of nagging with the intent of getting me to overcome my expectations of failure and submit some of my own writing. She is tenacious when she pursues a goal but this would be a long and drawn out battle as we are both well fortified and substantially well armed - she with her faith, me with my fear.

As a child, I dreamed of writing, of spending my days in an attic with an old Remington and a scarred up desk that overlooked a small town with a main square. A writer should have a solitary life, I believed, the better to observe and reflect and interpret - even then my reclusive side was fighting for its rights and a place to be. I might share this place with a cat or two, I thought, but my contact with the outside world would be strictly limited to calls with publishers and agents. I would be the mysterious and rarely glimpsed author, sleeping by day and writing through the night - stories my grandmother had told me, well edited memories of family and friends from the life I'd had before becoming a writer, tales I created from some blend of imagination and actual events or wishfulness. I would, naturally, be wildly successful and sought after and eventually be able to retire to some small and isolated island with dirt roads and no neighbors. My integrity would be intact and I would ever so graciously turn down speaking engagements and book tours, gaining a reputation for eccentricity and talent. I would be humble when my novels appeared on the best seller list, crediting my ability to God and an alcoholic upbringing. I would have horses, cabinets filled with Jersey Milk bars, a view of the ocean and endless time.

My dreams were reinforced by A+ term papers and English essays - writers didn't need to know numbers I told myself in high school and college and dismissed those poor grades with a creative flourish. I was to be a writer, a wordsmith - An Artist - not a mathematician or an accountant. I was to follow in the footsteps of my literary heroes and poets - did Walter Farley or Edward Stratemeyer or H. Allen Smith balance their own checkbooks? I thought not. A writer is a creative force using words as his strength and language as his salvation.

Unfortunately, Time and her evil stepsister, Reality - an uncommonly ugly pairing if ever there was one - do not always respect dreams. They are sure footed creatures and never stumble unlike Fame and Fortune. And since a writer has to eat, even if it's no more than a Jersey Milk bar and an Orange Crush, I kept my day jobs, learned to balance my checkbook, graduated, came to love dogs as well as cats, and married. Days turned into weeks, then months, then years, and the world continued to spin without my literary contributions. Time marched on with Reality at her side and neither as much as bothered to ask for my input.

Now I write because I enjoy the process - it clears my mind, gives my imagination free rein, and detoxifies me. It's not fame or fortune, and I do it from an aging computer in a corner of a bedroom and not a private island, but it's enough. If you're in a small boat and you can't swim, it's best not to make waves.