Ifyouhaven’tguessed by now -- after a grand total of two columns since becoming editor I feel incredibly blessed that I grew up with the family I did. All of them. The family I was born into, the family my mothermarriedinto,and those I have found along the way (don’t worry, Bestie -- your family is likely to get columns in the future).
But especially my mother. For many reasons, though mostly because she always supported my creative side.
You see, I’m an arts kid. Ever since I was little, I felt deep in my bones that I was meant to be something creative. I should have known much earlier on that I would be a writer and story-teller -- the signs were there from the moment I could string words together into sentences. Usually making up something to get out of trouble. (Never worked -- Mom was a human lie detector.) But alas, I didn’t pick up on it and tried literally everything else first.
I tried piano, taking lessons for about a decade. That was mostly Mom -- she was incredibly talented once upon a time and had decided that all of her children would study the instrument as well. I wasn’t completely bad, per say. I actually became very good at sight-reading, mostly because I hated practicing. Every lesson I would sit down and play, thinking I had covered my tracks.And every lesson, Mrs. Brown always knew I was sight-reading.
I remember talking to Mom about it, frustrated that even when I did practice, I wasn’t as good as I wanted to be.
“Well… you’re not bad. And I love listening to you. But… I don’t think people will pay money to hear you play piano.”
Yes, tough, I know. But Mom wanted us to be practical. I would then counter that at least I play with heart.That was followed by a grimace. However, Mom being Mom, she then said something that went over my head at the time, but sticks with me now.
“You know you can keep doing something even if you’re not good enough to be a professional. As long as you love doing it, keep doing it.”
The lesson I took was that piano wasn’t my thing. But, I kept taking lessons until I was 17.
On to the next thing. I tried art in middle school. Once again, I was good, but nothing that people would probably buy. I stopped drawing. I tried drama class. Choir. Singing in church. I was on the Chandler pom squad from seventh grade until halfway through junior year. We won State that year.
Always the same thing. “You’re good. I love watching you. But maybe don’t make this your career.”
And then, “But it makes you happy, so keep doing it.”
Finally, I had a teacher who told me I should be a writer. (Mrs. Myers if you missed that column from a couple years ago). I joined the high school newspaper my junior year. I started winning awards for short stories and newspaper articles.
I told my parents at 14 that I wanted to be a writer. At 15, I said I wanted to be a reporter. But I still wanted to write books.
And finally, I found my thing. And Mom, well, she said something different this time. Granted, I was totally embarrassed because she had found the novel I wrote at 16 (which was horrible, by the way) and read the whole thing.
“Some day, I’m going to see your books in bookstores.”
She didn’t live to see that day. And it’s only one bookstore. InYukon. For now. But I have managed to self-publish two novels. Hopefully about to publish my third this summer. Still hoping I someday get a trad deal.
And now I’m here. Editor of The Lincoln County News.
But you know what? I still do community theatre. Because I love it. I do karaoke nights. Because I love it. And ultimately, even if I never become a full-time novelist, I’m still going to write books. Because I love it. (Though, my best friend likely has words about that and will do whatever she can to single-handedly make me a successful novelist, if she can.)
I guess the lesson finally landed. Not everything has to be a job or a career. But it can always remain your passion. As long as you love it. And I love that my mom supported me through all of it.