Trading Lives

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the past. I'm sure it has more to do with the fact that I'm facing a milestone birthday than anything else. Although... I have been working on issues that crept all the way back to what I call the Dark Ages.

Yesterday I was thinking about my childhood. Memories are fragmented at best. It always amazes me that some people can describe incidents in their childhood as if it happened just a day ago. And sequence? Forget it! The cart, the horse - I can't tell which was first.

One thing I remember with crystal clarity though is my yearning to be someone else and somewhere else. I suppose we have all had our moments where that is a preference. But for me, it was an obsession.

I was a voracious reader in the early days. I am thinking it took me to those places I longed to be. And I devoured the written word as if it were the most delicious dessert one could imagine. I had learned how to read well before I entered school. By second grade I was reading at a sixth grade level they believed. No book was too large or difficult for me to attempt.

My writing ability was discovered by one of my teachers. She would come to be my first fan and shower me with praise and encouragement. By third grade I had found poetry and the likes of Ernest Hemmingway, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe and so many others I will not bother you with.

I would have rather died than miss a day of school. (You don't hear that much any more.) It was my element, my solace, my hope. It was the place I could dream my dreams and be myself. It was the place I buried my nose in a book and wished I could one day write like Frost and Dickinson. I carried that idea for a very long time: to write like the great authors of the world.

Fast forward thirty years...

I had finally found a job where I could thrive. It wasn't the ideal job at the company, but there was hope for advancement. I had settled in a small town and gotten a job at the local newspaper. It wasn't a fancy job like reporter or anything, just a lowly typesetter. That typing class in high school was good for something.

On a crisp beginning-of-Fall day just before Labor Day weekend I entered the editor's office with a manuscript in hand. I was very shy and reserved. My eyes kept checking out his shoelaces. Nearly inaudible I said, "I write. Would you take a look at this?" His response made me feel as though I had made a mistake. "Everybody writes around here," he said, and then he laughed. I felt like running away. I felt like I was five years old all of a sudden. He said that he would and I went back to my work with a reddened face and very little hope.

I told no one. It was as if saying it out loud would make it disappear. I couldn't bear that thought. The long weekend dragged by and the further into it I got, the more convinced I was that I should never have given him the piece I wrote. How could I ever go to work again if he thought it was garbage?

Tuesday came and I entered work to find a note on the monitor of my computer. "Come see me immediately when you get in to work," it said very simply. It was from the editor. My mouth went dry and I felt dizzy. My stomach began to churn and I nearly started to cry. My heart pounded out of my chest.

With the note in hand (I don't know why) I entered his office. He turned and noticed it was me. For the next few moments I was in suspended animation positive I was dreaming or, at the worst, hallucinating. He walked back and forth very fast. His voice raised decibels. His arms were waving back and forth and suddenly it dawned on me what he was saying. "This is award winning stuff! Do you realize that?" And as the realization of what he was saying crept into my consciousness, I nearly fainted.

With weeks of work with the graphics department, the article finally made its debut on the front page of the Saturday edition. It is reserved for the human interest story of the week. Given my own column after that edition came out, I was an instant celebrity. All my years of dreaming had paid off. I had arrived.

And if I thought that was special, it paled in comparison to what was waiting for me. Without my knowledge (or permission), he entered the article into competition. Several awards were granted to me, one complete with an awards banquet in Boston.

With hindsight having perfect vision, I now know it was too much for me to bear at the time. I remember talking with him in one of those days following all the commotion of awards dinners. I told him how I wished I could write like Frost or Dickinson. Even the awards didn't convince me. He asked me, "So what's wrong with being SallyRose?"

Like them, he explained, I had my own style of writing. I had my own perspective and way to tell the story. Indeed, that is what made them who they were. He said I should always strive to be the best me and to set goals for myself so I could push my own envelope. He also said that once you have written and other people know the gift you have, it isn't yours alone any more. You have an obligation to share it.

All of that scared me. I didn't know how to become, to flower. And so I ran away always looking back to what may have been... until recently.

I know now that I had to do what I had to do. There are no regrets. But his words linger in my heart. I no longer wish to be the Frost or Dickinson. I no longer wish to indulge in trading lives. My life is wonderful. It has its glitches. Who's life doesn't? But I know now that I am better by far than I ever was and look forward to being better in the future. Now why would I want to trade that? Everything has come full circle... it just took a little longer than I expected.