That title is a lie.
The journey began a long, long time ago when I was a weird little girl who stayed up late to write stories while hiding under the covers of my bed. I wrote stories in my head even when I wasn’t able to write stories on the paper. I wrote by the light of a brass flashlight (circa WW2) that my grandfather had used to signal Morse code to other ships, which meant that I had to hold the button to keep the light on. My thumb would throb from pressing that tiny button as one long dash, but those stories kept me from sleep.
Then, I took a long, long break from writing when I was trying not to be a weird young woman. I’ve never been content without creating, though.
I’ve returned to myself. Now, I’m old enough to realize that it doesn’t matter if I’m weird and wise enough to realize that Dr. Seuss was right all along: those who matter don’t mind and those who mind don’t matter. The time will pass anyway, I thought. So, some years ago, I participated inNaNoWriMo, and I “won.” (If you aren’t familiar with NaNoWriMo, check it out.)
Several years have passed since I decided to put on my big girl pants. I’ve written over half a million words, and I’m sure half of those are going to be scrapped and half of what remain are going to be rearranged until my fingerprints have been worn off from tapping the keyboard. Somewhere, buried in those half a million words, are three novels and some interesting, authentic characters that I would have loved to meet in my high school English classroom.
Now, I have a manuscript that I am going to try to publish. That’s the journey that begins here. Not the writing — no, that’s been happening for my whole life. Isn’t that the truth for all writers? Everything we see, hear, feel, taste, touch — everything we LIVE — becomes the letters of our stories.
Am I brave enough to share the saga of trying to get this, or any, manuscript published? Perhaps. We’ll see. If you come back, you’ll see.