I always thought getting discovered as a writer would be easy. All it takes is one great story and it sells itself, right?
Ok. Then all it takes is years of hard work, developing the craft, writing short stories, taking the smaller victories while you edit that book to be exactly what people will want to read! A decade of tears is nothing in exchange for changing the world with the written word and getting to write for a living!
What’s that? That doesn’t work either?
Ok, how about this: I’ll write a picture book about farts! Everyone thinks farts are funny. All I need is one retweet, one share from a well populated parenting group, and I can finally start living my dream life as a writer.
Mmmnope. No one cares.
No one cares.
That might be the hardest lesson of the undiscovered writer. You ask who I am when I’m not being a parent. I’m the woman trying to be the example of what happens when you dream enough, when you strive enough, when you put faith in yourself and your work and it actually pays off.
I’m not that woman yet. I’m just the hopeful shadow of that person, waiting for the sun to reveal me from behind the clouds.
It is grounding, in a way. Even when my children grow and leave me, I will always have my words. They are mine, and I love what I can do with them-like the sculptor with her clay I form worlds and find joy in my stories. Someday there may be others that do too, and someone other than my mom and lovely coworkers will give me a nice Amazon review.
Somewhere hidden between the piles of toys and the unwashed floors I live, my laptop on my kitchen table because our house is too small for me to have a room for myself, as they say every woman should.
I am the one that dreams of that room. I am the one waiting to be seen.