I have an older album of cardboard
and clear stiff-page sheet protectors which were marketed long before anyone
knew what archival quality was. That album holds the tear-sheets of op-eds and
articles I wrote when I dreamt of being the writer I am today. That collection,
written from a younger heart, is more impassioned by opinion and moved by life’s
discoveries.
I have another album, quite huge,
made by my mother-in-law years ago, containing a collection of my published
pieces she was proud to save. And, I have a colorful folder with dozens of
copies of my articles, saved by my mother. These last two are very special
because they hold dear the words two of my favorite women sought to include in their
personal archives.
On the walls of my office is a
collection of columns and op-eds my youngest daughter framed and hung when she
and her husband did my office over secretly
as a Christmas gift. The real gift that year, of the place I call heaven, is
her choice of pieces to hang. Many of those are my favorites.
All of these published pieces, which
count in the hundreds by now, are a history of my thoughts from moving to
maudlin, from inquisitive asking, to officious answering's. When reviewing these
writing achievements I am struck by the course my heart and mind has taken over
a couple of decades. In that span, from writing about my baby, to writing about my baby’s baby,
it illustrates a lifetime of how-to, have-not and still-want, gathered around many subjects. And just because I’ve
been published, does not mean I don’t want more. I unabashedly admit, without
embarrassment, to a continued self-centered sense of need for writing achievement because writing is how I define my intellectual-self.
I’m not sure of what someone else’s pinnacle
of writing success is but I do know that for me; it is a switch from byline to
title page. The only way I know
to do that is within the genre of memoir. But because I have not hiked a
mountain range, conquered cancer, been freed from abduction, been challenged by
physical limitations, have married a man who became president, am running for president,
have eaten, prayed and loved my way around the world, because my life has been
just like most everyone else’s, no one in traditional publishing wants to take
a chance on me. And why would they? I am a nobody, who is every-woman. And what’s
wrong with every-woman? Nothing really, but who, they say, wants to spend $19.99
on one?
By traditional publishing I was
told that columnist writing is pedestrian.
My column is an exercise in tenaciousness
understanding regarding the importance of life-long learning and achievement
in the face of the everyday.
I am told that only after three or four published
novels, would someone want to click on one of Amazon's tiny-icons or even pick
up the memoir/essay collection from the short stack on a bookstore table, read the jacket copy and
decide. As a woman, a wife and a writer I’d
sure as shit would want to read about me and how I got here.
So it is, that to my binder, my
life-of-writing loose-leaf, my albums and folders of precious yellowing tear-sheets, that I look to define
my writing-life. Have I achieved, yes, have I persevered, yes, will I give up
the climb, hell no, will I reach my pinnacle, who knows.
Actors say, you’re only as good
as your next movie. Novelists say you’re only as good as your next book. Columnists
say, you’re only as good as your editor says you are. I say, because I’ve been
around a long time, and I know this to be true, you’re only as good as you are during the moments you're
privileged to ponder the question. Right now is all we have. This is
not to say we should settle for less than what we want but that we should appreciate
that which we have already achieved.
Yes, I have a binder of PVC free,
latex free, acid free, archival quality, clear sheet protectors that help
remind me of how far I have come, how rich my journey has been, and how long it
continues to be, if my wheels keep-a-turnin'.
How far have you come?
