The Ghost that Haunted Me
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 found; 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 highchair; 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, and her intense 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, immediately recognizing the faded ink of stories I’d written one summer while visiting my aunt. At the end of summer, I carried the stories home in that shoebox, excited about having discovered my creative spirit. I stored the shoebox under my bed, wondering how I could use my creativity and love for words as a career.
That fall, I wrote my first story as part of an English assignment. I remembered the 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.
After reading my story, my English teacher took me aside saying, “You’ve got writing talent. I’m curious. Have you thought about attending college and pursuing a writing career?”
I was young and uninformed and hadn’t even thought about college let alone the idea of using my love for words for any practical means.
“No, Ms. Carpenter, I haven’t,” I replied, a feeling of excitement stirring in the pit of my stomach. I left her classroom with a newly found awareness; and from that moment on, I dreamt of attending college and becoming a journalist or even a novelist like Pearl Buck.
“I know you love words and writing but be sensible,” Mother suggested when I announced my future plans. “Find a dependable, less risky way to use your passion.” I took her advice; closed the door to my teenage dream and passion; enrolled in college; and majored in English education leaving behind my shoebox stories.
For 25+ years, I was happy and purposeful as a high school English teacher, comfortable and content with nurturing a love for reading and writing in my students. However, my desire to be a writer was like a disgruntled ghost that occasionally haunted me. I did anything I could to fend off this unhappy apparition by finding alternate ways to use my love for words and creativity: I edited textbooks for publishers, volunteered to write curriculum, and even opted to teach journalism and yearbook classes. When my students wrote essays and short stories, I wrote my own. Some were finished, but many were not. I placed them all in a file inside my desk drawer—a file that grew thick over the years.
Sometimes my ghost showed up unexpectedly but most often appeared when I advised one of my students who, like me, dreamt of becoming a writer but was unsure about pursuing a writing career. “Remember,” I advised, “an unfulfilled dream is like a ghost. It’ll come back to haunt you.”
My dream was no different. Eventually, the unfinished business of my life haunted me with greater frequency; and I began feeling restless, irritable, and dissatisfied.
“Maybe it’s time to retire your chalk and eraser,” my husband suggested. “Haven’t you always wanted to be a writer?”
“Yes…but,” my voice faltered. “What if it’s too late?”
“It’s never too late to be what you might have been.”
“But what if writing is just a foolish teenage pipe dream? What if I have no writing talent? What if I fail? Then what?”
“Come on, dear. You’re letting your fear get ahold of you. You’re being negative. You know better.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I conceded.
“Besides,” he continued, “what if you succeed? Then what? Focus on success instead. You’ll be a great writer!” he assured me, giving me an encouraging hug.
“I get your point. Okay, I’ll do it!” I asserted, suddenly remembering my thick file of essays and stories inside my desk drawer.
For days I scoured through the file, finding several promising stories and essays that I could edit and submit to writing contests. I edited a handful of them then searched the Internet for publications and contests until I found one with a topic that matched one of my stories.
“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, filled with a surge of teenage-like optimism. I resigned from teaching, resurrecting my passion for writing and fulfilling my life-long dream, once again losing myself in stories that longed to be told.
I’m glad I cast out the ghost that had haunted me for so long. Taking care of unfinished business transformed me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. With each piece I write, I see the world and the people in it from a deeper, fresher perspective: I see individual blades of grass; hear the words in nature’s silence; feel un unspoken connection with people I meet; and watch the events of the world unfold, witnessing them from a different angle.
I awaken each morning filled with hope and promise knowing I have the privilege of creating something new. With the click of a button, I send it out into the world never really knowing whose life my story might touch or change.
This is the main task of us storytellers—to touch human lives and share the universal truths that reveal our common humanity. I’m grateful and humble for the gift of words and am unbelievably content being a storyteller—the type of soulful contentment that comes from embracing one’s passion and fulfilling not only one’s purpose in life but also one’s life-long dream.
Comments