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In 1993, long before I ever tried to write for publication, I attended a writing seminar. I had never traveled alone out into the big, bad world, so I was scared to death. I made my reservation, packed my suitcase, and drove two hours away. This was my big chance.
When I arrived, I checked into the hotel (my first time to ever be alone anywhere), and dressed for the evening. The first thing on the schedule was dinner for the attendees and the two faculty members. Oh, how I wanted to make a good impression! After all, this was a meeting of writers! I was sure every person there was brilliant and wise and multi-published…and here I was, a little wife and mother who was thinking that maybe, just perhaps, she might try to write something.
So I squared my shoulders, held my head high, and strolled into the meeting room like I was one of them. Twenty or thirty people were already there, some seated at dining tables, others standing around talking. I found a table nearby and grabbed a chair. Someone quickly started introductions, and I nodded and shook hands around the table.
The last person to speak was a gentleman seated to my right. He put out his hand, smiled and said, “Welcome. I’m Gary Provost. I’m the director of this seminar.” Director? I’m sitting by the director of the seminar? If there was anything worse than being the only dummy in a room of brilliant writers, it was being the only dummy seated by the director in a room of brilliant writers. I wanted to run out the door, grab my luggage, and head for home.
But I couldn’t. The director still had my hand. “So tell me, Vonda, what do you write?”
What does he mean, What do I write? I can write my name. Does my name count? But I didn’t say anything. I just stared at him, wide-eyed, trying to figure out what in the world ever made me think I could just walk into a writing seminar and pretend I was supposed to be there.
Being the brilliant writer that he was, he took my non-verbal cue. “Well, why don’t we go around the table and you can think about it.” He smiled and let go of my hand. I listened as everyone at the table gave an eloquent discourse of what he or she was writing, wanted to write, or was learning to write.
Me? I just sat there, the gears in my not-so-brilliant mind working in overdrive, trying to come up with something–anything!–that would make me sound like I had some sense. And then the proverbial light bulb went off! I knew just what I could say that would show these brilliant writers that I was one of them. That I, too, could think deep thoughts, raise deep questions, and solve the problems of the world through the power of my words.
Just as the brilliant thought cemented itself into my brain, Gary Provost turned back to me. “So, Vonda, what do you write?”
I cleared my throat. “Um, to be honest, I haven’t really written anything yet.” So far so good.
“Really? Why not?”
I squared my shoulders, held up my head and said, “Well, I figured as long as I haven’t written, I haven’t failed.” Now that was a profound statement if I’d ever heard one!
I waited for the applause of the brilliant writers seated at the table. I envisioned them clamoring around me, asking my advice about everything from physics to the meaning of life.
But there was no applause, no clamoring, no questions. Instead, Gary Provost, Director, looked me straight in the eyes and said, “No, Vonda. As long as you haven’t written, you’ve failed already.”
Boom! I took it right there between the eyes. I went home and wrote my first book.
Now, if you’ve been reading my posts or been in any of my classes, you know the book was terrible. After all, I hadn’t done anything to prepare for writing it! But the point is, I wrote. I wrote something.
Of course, because I didn’t go to writer’s conferences or take classes or try to learn the craft of writing, I dashed to publication in a mere…oh, I don’t know…seven or eight…years! It took about ten years for that first book to be published.
So lesson #1 is: If you want to be a writer, you have to write! (I know. That’s really profound, isn’t it?) Don’t worry about rejections. Rejections aren’t failures. Refusing-to-write-when-God-has-given-you-something-to-say is failure.
When we get rejections, we’re not failing, we’re simply discovering ways not to write what we have to say or who not to send it to.
So write. Write a lot. Write everyday, if possible. It’s in the act of writing that you become a writer.
And lesson #2: The only way to truly fail is to NOT write.
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And Who’s This Week’s Winner of Bonnie Calhoun’s Cooking the Books?
It’s Dena! Congratulations! Dena, simply Contact Me with your snail mail address and you’ll soon receive a free autographed copy of Bonnie’s new book! Hurray!
And I know the rest of you are going to want to get your own copy, so just head on over to Amazon and grab yourself a copy–or two!–of Cooking the Books by Bonnie Calhoun!
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