I’ve always been a writer. Since I wrote “I hate Donny Osmond” in my pink-and-white Holly Hobbie diary when I was five, I derived a charge from the written word. On some level, it satisfies my need to highjack conversations and talk.
Sometimes.
In college, one of my writing professors took an interest in me. He wrote for the tv show ‘Moonlighting,’ and he was convinced I needed to be a creative writer when I grew up. I scoffed in his face. I was going to be an accountant, and make loads of money. Writing would be an impractical, dead-end endeavor.
I was an accountant. For eleven years, I slaved away in public accounting. Worrying about other people’s money does not equate to making it oneself. But, I listened to their problems. I picked through the receipts stuck together with food. (I hope it was food.) I tried, within the ever-shifting confines of the law, to help my clients make more money. They all made more than me.
Unfulfilled, I changed gears. A bunch of lawyers wanted a business person to run their law firm. It wasn’t what I wanted to do, but I didn’t know what else to try. I took the job, and I learned. A lot. Along the way, I helped those lawyers make more money and take home bigger paychecks. I almost got an ulcer in the process, but hey, I was good at my job. Helping other people be successful made me happy.
Now, I work with business owners……..you guessed it: to help them be more successful, make more money and realize their dreams. Even in a down economy, I’ve helped clients grow businesses.
For more than twenty years, I’ve taken on the dreams and challenges of other people. I haven’t always solved every problem, but my track record is good. I’ve made other people money. Heck, some of them are even rich. Not all because of me, but I contributed, a thought that makes me proud.
On the downside, all that helping and listening and solving means I’ve buried my own dreams. If I had to sell my business tomorrow, I would have nothing, because I can’t sell my brain. I can’t name a soul who would want it. I haven’t made anything that really belongs to me, that is a product of my own hand.
That I can say is mine.
In frustration, I started writing. At first, I bombarded people in my social network with status updates. Writing and writing and writing, in little blips and blurbs, my thoughts on all sorts of things. I drove people crazy; most of them didn’t want to know that much about me. I got that. Loud and clear.
So, I turned to blogging. An average person won’t take the time to read a blog, I thought. I can have a creative outlet and quit driving people mad. To this day, I write this blog for myself, because I NEED to do it. I’m still amazed anyone reads it. Amazed, and grateful.
For me, this blog is magic. It made me circle back, to tackle something I’ve always wanted to do.
Sunday, I finished my first novel. Okay, technically, it is the third draft of my first novel. Before I started, I had no idea writing a book meant writing four of five of them . Early iterations were sketches, strung together with no plot. Now, it has a distinct beginning, middle and end, and it follows the dramatic storyboard of conflict and resolution.
It’s the first thing I’ve ever created in my adult life that is truly, utterly mine. 100%. Whether it makes me rich or doesn’t make a dime, I did it. It didn’t happen by magic.
But, to me, it feels magical.
Too Much is Just Enough: Going for the Things We Want
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Last week, Cameron D. Garriepy invited me to participate in Story Circle, a four-week series she runs on her blog. Every Friday, a different writer contributes part of the story, weaving it to a conclusion. Cameron is a gifted writer and is boundlessly supportive of others. I love reading her stories, two collections of which are currently available for download on Smashwords here.
