I want to be a Writer ...

The blinking cursor mocks me.  Its constant presence surrounded by glaring emptiness reminds me “you will never be a “real writer”.  You will never be her.”   Over the years, I have written hundreds of inane articles all about a world famous, best-selling, iconic author who I have never met, detailing her every upcoming project, her every online mention and even her every Facebook page post, all the while, wishing I was her. 

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a writer.  At seven or eight, I started creating my own fantasies to escape the horrors of an alcoholic Father, a bitterly disappointed Mother and four siblings in varying states of emotional trauma.

They were always the same.  All about a beautiful, young princess trapped in a lonely castle waiting for someone or something to take her away.   As I got older, and could escape through other people’s words, I gave up my own fantasies and immersed myself in the worlds of others.

When I was ten, my junkie brother who also loved to read, but used other roads to escape, introduced me to an author who wrote the most beautiful prose I’d ever read all about these wondrous creatures trapped in their own private hell. 

Neither alive nor dead, her characters gave voice to my own private demons.  Her descriptions of a certain time and certain place transported me from the daily terror of a childhood I had no control over into a world where I didn’t have to worry all the time about what would happen next;  I knew she’d take care of the end.

When my Father was arrested and went to jail for bank robbery and my sister started running away, I picked up the pen again.  Only now, I no longer wrote about castles and princesses, instead I wrote about the death of childish dreams. 

After a while, my reading habits also changed.  Gone was the flowery prose and lavish lifestyles of characters who no longer felt like they belonged in my life.  Now, I was reading the memoirs of other people whose dysfunctional childhoods mirrored my own.  I soon discovered my misery not only loved company, it relished the camaraderie.

In my early twenties, I was encouraged by a supportive spouse tired of listening to my longing to be a “real writer” to submit my work to a few women’s magazines.

My first essay was published not long after, but was almost unrecognizable once the editor got hold of it.  The true story of my eldest brother’s escapades as a mob “wannabe” and his eventual placement in the witness protection program was turned into a sappy ode about a heartbroken Mother and the torture of losing her eldest child.  Needless to say, there was nothing sappy about the truth.

But, it was still my name that was credited as the author of the piece and thrilled by the idea that whoever read it would believe it was mine, I continued to write and submit certain that, one day, it would be.

Over the years, I would find myself writing for anyone willing to publish my work no matter how small the publication or insignificant the story.  In turn, I’ve written fascinating pieces on new bus-stops, store openings and even bingo stories for any pay and, most times, none at all.  A byline was all I needed.

A couple of times, I would get lucky and some of my own essays about my life would be printed in reputable newspapers that even had their own subscribers.  On those occasions, there was no one better than me.  My life mattered.  I was a writer.  Someone else said so because they published it.

But, as time moved along and I got older, my desire to write seemed to come and go.  I still felt that same need to put pen to paper and the familiar sense of relief and release when I spilled my guts on the page, but the subsequent loss of confidence in my abilities combined with the rarity of publication and the constant thought that no one else would be interested in my life, endlessly plagued me and terminal doubt became my constant companion.

However, my ego had a mind of its own and with paper publications becoming obsolete, I began looking online for other writing opportunities.  It was then that I found a fledgling news and entertainment website that was looking for writers for specific subjects and even let you suggest your own.

“What the hell could I write about?” I pondered.  I was now 47 years old and married for twenty-five years.  I worked part-time as a medical records clerk and spent my downtime cooking, cleaning or, if I wasn’t too tired, reading.

After researching some of the other topics covered on this website, I could only think of one thing; I would write about my favorite childhood author.

It seemed simple enough.  I was definitely familiar with her books, I knew, what I thought was a lot,  about her personal life and, above all, she had had a significant enough affect on my childhood years that writing about her, might be the closest I would ever come to writing about myself.

In the years that followed and over the course of e-mails and online posts, I like to think that this famous author and I have come to know each other pretty well.  I have told her about my own battles with prescription drug abuse, my many marital issues and even my sick puppy and she has supported me through it all, though we have never met and, probably, never will.

It is a strange online relationship between someone who has longed her whole life to be a famous writer and a truly famous writer grateful for all that life has given her. 

But, for now, the blinking cursor still mocks me.