Going for It

There's been a sudden shift in the wind direction around here. Somewhere along the line, I'd decided to settle, and that's never good--in fact, I'm sure that's the exact cause of old age. But after sitting in the doldrums for a few days (which turned into years, actually...), for some reason I'm once again seized with the old carpe diem (Latin for "grab the carp," as I believe I learned from Dave Barry).

Pretty much everybody I've ever known started out with dreams. Little kids all have them. They come so easy when you have that great, fresh, untainted imagination; and all you have to do is picture yourself doing something cool and wonderful. Time is your friend then--everything great is going to happen when you grow up. You don't have to worry about what anything costs, or whether you have any talent or connections. You don't have to worry about running out of time or having other responsibilities. Basically, when you're a little kid, dreaming is your whole job, and you're still good at it.

But suddenly, hey--you're grown up! People start expecting you to pay your own way. The stuff you want costs a lot, and so does the stuff you just plain need, like health insurance. The student loans come due. Maybe you get married. Your spouse has a job right here--moving around is no longer an option. And once you have kids, the dreams are theirs...and usually whatever dreams you can still dredge up turn into dreams for them and their future.

The days go by so fast, and every day seems to have its own challenges--today it's the computer crashing; yesterday was Grandpa's operation; tomorrow I'm too tired from not sleeping. Everything becomes "after the credit card bill is paid off," "after we finish adding the new bedroom," "after the first of the year," "after I retire," "after I'm feeling better." And one day you're getting ready for bed, and you stop and think, I can't remember one single thing I did today toward my goals. Or the days before. Unless I do something drastic right this minute, this is exactly how I'm going to live out the rest of my days.

Am I the only one who finds this screamingly terrifying? I'd rather live out my days flinging my battered body against the gates of my dreams--trying to tunnel under, climb over, or hike all the way around; trying to get inside. Even if I don't make it, at least I'll be headed somewhere. At least, my days will have a purpose.

It's like the poem about the pioneers says: "The cowards never started and the weak died along the way." I sure enough started this journey years ago. I even made it a goodly distance down the road. I wrote those books. I sent them out. I got the rejections and I still kept sending them out. I got the heartbreakingly-close calls and the outright door-slams in the face. Eventually, I got the publications. I got the book-signings. But what I found out is that you never really "make it." At least, I didn't.

I used to think if I could just publish a novel, I'd die happy. But my reality was that I published a book and --after all that struggle-- I was still just getting started. The fighting ahead--through the brush, and the tigers, and the wild and icy rivers; the bloody-fingered climb up the rock face, to the place where my dreams live--that wasn't over.

I wanted more books, better books. I wanted to be a better writer. I wanted to feel that I'd said what I was put here to say. And, though I was now published, I still hadn't found my way out of the wilderness to the main road.

For a lot of years, I'd slipped into writing articles and personal essays. I was still "writing", and I was still publishing. But it wasn't where I belong, and my heart knew it, no matter what my head kept saying.

I encouraged my children to chase down their dreams. But I was no longer taking my own advice, and my words rang hollow in my ears.

And so I'm writing again. I'm revising clunky endings and pondering half-constructed plots; I'm scribbling down crazy ideas that pop into my head seemingly from the air; I'm sending things out and daring people to reject me. In short, I'm alive again--like Snow White pushing aside the lid of the glass coffin, and the years of kudzu and spiderwebs.

A rejection is just a sign along the road to destiny--you won't see any of these if you aren't writing, and if you aren't putting your stuff out there in the big wide world. But neither will you ever see your name in print. Ultimately, to me it's worth it. As the Latin Americans say, "Vale la pena"--it's worth the pain. I think, deep down, the heart knows what it wants and why it's here. Why would I trade my days on earth for anything less?
Why would I trade the hardships of a brave charge toward my dreams, for what Thoreau called a life "of quiet desperation?"

Am I on the right road? I've wondered. Recently, I let an agent see the first chapter of my novel under revision, but also told her about my nonfiction ideas, partly, I'm sure, because nonfiction always feels safe, compared to those notoriously hard-to-sell novels--like lingering on base and not making the perilous dash for home. It felt like the Almighty winked at me when she said, "Concentrate on your fiction." Hey, Lord, You don't have to tell me twice (I hope)!

As long as I am questing, I am young, no matter what my body tries to tell me. George Eliot said, "It is never too late to be what you might have been." We shall see about that--yes, most definitely! I'm on the road again.