Pursuing a Dream Deferrred

I’m not a jealous person by nature—it’s just not part of my make-up, I’m happy to say. But when I took my daughter to visit Emerson College last week and listened to a young woman on the student panel talk about how fortunate she was to be able to pursue her BFA in writing there, I will admit, the green-eyed monster reared its head for a little while.

If only I had chosen to go to school for writing, where might I be now?

Next week I will be forty-nine years old. I have been writing seriously for only a few years. I have completed two novels, both currently in revision, several picture books, still tentatively being sent out to publishers, and I’ve had a few poems published, but haven’t really pursued that aspect of my writing. And I took no writing classes in all my years of college, way back when. I didn't believe in my ability to tell a story that other people would want to hear. I kept my dream tucked away inside my heart.

So, as I sat and listened to the young woman at Emerson enthusiastically describing her passion for her major, those two ugly words kept popping into my head. If only. . . if only. . . if only. . .

Which finally woke me up to my own reality.

I have lived a full and varied life. I have traveled, had a family, lived on an island, run a marathon, learned to sing. I’ve seen otters slipping through the woods from pond to pond. I have seen how many of my friends’ and loved ones’ real life stories have ended. I’ve known and loved children who have left this world too soon.

And I realize that coming into the world of writers in mid-life is not so terrible a thing, after all.

Because when I write now, I bring to the table the fullness of my life. It is a life I love, despite the challenges. Or, perhaps, because of the challenges. Because where would we be without those challenges? How would we grow? How would we appreciate how good life can be without understanding, also, how hard it can be?

Becoming a serious writer can happen at any age. Although I didn't take writing classes in college, I have been devouring books on the craft of writing, reading and studying the works of authors in and outside my genre, attending workshops and conferences. . . and writing and revising, writing and revising ad infinitum.

And I love it.

I have things to say in my writing that I couldn’t have said in my teens, or my twenties. Heck, not even in my thirties. I know things about myself that I couldn’t have guessed at twenty years ago. And I think that informs my writing in a way that no books on craft of workshops could ever do.

So the green-eyed monster has slipped away as I realize that I have been training as a writer all my life. I am happy for those who know at a younger age that this is their dream. The world is a better place because of these young artists, pursuing their craft and maturing into it. But as I head to the New England SCBWI writing conference today, excited about the many different sessions on craft and publishing I've signed up for, and ready to apply what I learn to my work as a writer, I realize how very lucky I am to be pursuing my own dream deferred. Because this is a dream which has grown richer with age. And I am ready to savor every last bit of it.