Never Too Late
I climbed up the retractable staircase into my parents’ dimly-lit attic; fumbled my way across the creaky wooden floor; wiped the grime off a nearby dormer window letting the sunlight stream in; and glanced around. Cobwebs hung off the walls, their owners nowhere to be seen; and dust lay over every surface like dirty snow. Stacked all around me was a maze of discarded toys; old board games; a vintage wooden high chair; idle suitcases; and several sealed boxes.
I sat down on the floor; lifted the lid off one of the boxes; and rummaged through its contents, unearthing a withered-looking scrapbook and an envelope filled with tattered photographs, many covered with dust and age.
I thumbed through the fragile photographs drawn to the faded picture of a young woman standing under an oak tree donning her graduation cap and gown. I didn’t recognize her at first but soon realized the photograph was one Mother took of me immediately after my high school graduation ceremony. I recalled so little of who that young woman was and what she did, vaguely remembering school room lunches, faddish clothes, the intensity she felt for transitory things, and her love for words. It seemed as if I’d forgotten her, her passions, and her dreams like one forgets a bag at a bus terminal. I wondered if she ever existed at all.
I laid the photograph aside and unearthed a dilapidated shoebox and gingerly opened it, sniffing the yellowed, timeworn paper. I opened the folded pages, recognizing the faded ink of stories I’d written long ago remembering how my love for words began.
When I was a little girl, Mother read the children’s dictionary to me every night before I went to bed. During my teen years, she helped me study my vocabulary words giving me tips on how to spell and use them correctly. “Words are like music,” she often said. “When composed harmoniously, they’re magnificent, powerful, and beautiful. Combine them wisely; use them carefully.”
Then there was that magical summer day when she took me to the local library. “Inside these books,” she pointed to the maze of shelved books, “writers have created stories. All you have to do is find one you like and read it. Books will take you to some unbelievable places.” I stood in awe gazing at shelf upon shelf of books, forever hooked on words, stories, and books. Up until the time I went to college, I faithfully visited the library every week and checked out five books, taking them home to read during the coming week. With each book I read, my fascination with words and how they were woven together grew.
When I was 17, I wrote my first story as part of an English assignment. I remembered that feeling of loosening my grip on my pen and letting it wander about on the page until the story found an entrance. Each word tugged another one along until I wrote one sentence, then more sentences, and then pages. I lost myself in the story that yearned to be told, and I loved creating imaginary characters and a fictional world, striving to make it seem real. To create something from nothing—well there was no other feeling quite like it.
After reading my story, my English teacher took me aside saying, “You’ve got writing talent. Have you thought about attending college and pursuing a writing career?”
“No, Ms. Carpenter, I haven’t.” I was young and naive and had no idea I could put my love for words to use for any practical means. From that moment on, I dreamed of attending college and becoming a journalist or even a novelist like Pearl Buck.
“I know you have an affection for words, but be sensible,” Mother insisted when I announced my future plans. “Find a dependable, less risky way to use your love for words and writing.” Not wanting to disappoint, I took her advice; discarded my teenage dream; enrolled in college; and majored in English education hoping to nurture a love for reading and writing in my students just as Ms. Carpenter and Mother had done for me. For 20+ years, I was happy and purposeful in my chosen profession—comfortable and content with the choice I’d made.
Occasionally, however, my unfulfilled dream gnawed at me, particularly when I advised one of my high school students who, like me, dreamed of becoming a writer but was unsure about pursuing a writing career. “Remember,” I fervently advised, “an unfulfilled dream is like a fire-breathing dragon who sleeps in a dark, abandoned cave. It won’t stay asleep forever.”
My dream was no different. It slowly stirred in its lair and awoke one day, and I began feeling restless, irritable, and discontent.
“Maybe it’s time to retire your chalk and eraser,” my husband suggested. “Haven’t you always wanted to write?”
“Yes…but,” my voice faltered. “What if it’s too late?”
“It’s never too late to be what you might have been.”
“What if writing is just a foolish teenage pipe dream? What if I have no writing talent? What if I fail? Then what?”
“But what if you succeed? Then what? You’ll be great!” He reassured me, giving my an encouraging hug.
I hesitated but eventually heeded his advice, registering for an online creative writing course after which I wrote and prepared my first manuscript for submission. “Fingers crossed!” I exclaimed, clicking the online “submit” button then waiting for a response for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, a reply came.
“Congratulations!” read the editor’s email. “Your story is well-written and ideally-suited for my anthology.” Months later a printed version of the anthology arrived in my mailbox, and the positive comments I received from the anthology’s readers were unexpected and overwhelming.
I was overjoyed and confident! Without further delay, I resigned from teaching, resurrecting my teenage dream and passion for writing, once again losing myself in stories that longed to be told. In just a few short years, I found my writing voice and a place in the writing world.
Was leaving the comfort zone that was my secure, predictable job easy? No, absolutely not! There was doubt and risk involved, risk that was both invigorating and terrifying—invigorating in placing emotion at the center of my life and writing from a place of insight but terrifying in having my work criticized, routinely rejected, and occasionally disliked. I felt vulnerable and uncomfortable, but those feelings were part of the risk and price I had to pay. Despite the vulnerability and risks, I haven’t changed my mind about being a writer. The risks were well worth the price, for I leave behind little pieces of myself in the words I commit to paper and in the stories I tell.
My experience taught me that the only thing more dangerous than taking risks is not taking them at all. We’re supposed to step out of our comfort zones, reinvent ourselves, and say yes to life. I’m glad I took the risk and reinvented myself, for I’m unbelievably content being a writer—the type of soulful contentment that comes from embracing my passion and fulfilling my life-long dream.
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