My Road to Writing

Today is the big day.  As I stand here at his podium with a crowd of patient readers before me, I reflect back on how far I've come. I think about what has brought me here. I suppose I have been waiting for this day all my life. As a young girl I could not seem to keep my pen off of the paper or my nose out of a book. I dreamed of being an author. I pictured myself spending my days by an open window that overlooks the sea. I dreamed of scribbling ideas in the form of words and doodles in my notebook. I wanted to hear the clicking of my keyboard as words poured out of my soul and onto the screen. I hoped for the smell of salty sea air and the sound of waves crashing in against the shore while my imagination stirred like a storm of creativity in my head. I often wondered how my stories would make readers feel, if I could inspire someone else the way books have always inspired me. I lay in my bed at night dreaming up beautiful cover art wrapped around the pages of my novels.  

I try to remember where it all began. I fell madly in love with a set of old poetry books on my mother’s bookshelf when I was a child. I read them over and over so many times I was sure the spine would tatter and crack. I pressed beautiful red rose petals between the pages of my most cherished poems. Somehow even now, years later the petals remain as soft and smooth as the day I pressed them. I always found something so magical about that. Like those petals, as well as the poetry below them would transcend time and stay with me forever. It was that feeling that began my passion for writing. Over the years I wrote my own poems. So many in fact that they busted out of binders and folders all over my room. A few were published and that gave me the confidence to move on to short stories.  

In my junior year, my high school hosted a young writer’s contest. I entered with a short story about a young woman who befriends an old man and learns something valuable about life through his story. I won the contest for my age group. It was so exciting and I was so proud of myself. My school filled an auditorium full of classmates that was interested in or involved with the contest. The winners were called in to read their stories aloud. All of a sudden, I couldn’t bring myself to stand at a podium in front of my peers and read my story. It made me feel so bare and vulnerable. Reading my story aloud was the equivalent of stripping my clothes off on stage and letting everyone see what was underneath. I couldn’t bring myself to reveal my work. Later, I was informed that one of my classmates, another winner, took my place and read my story for me. Somehow, that stung more. To know that someone else exposed something that was a part of me felt wrong. And yet, I had only myself to blame. It wasn’t until several weeks later that I received the confidence boost I needed to keep working on my writing. I received a letter in the mail from a prominent and well-respected woman that lived in my town. She had read my story in the local newspaper. Of all the stories published by my classmates, mine was the one that she connected with. My story made her feel something. She had wonderful things to say about me and encouraged me to pursue my talent.  

My “fan letter” was exactly what I needed to move forward with my writing. I sunk myself deeper into poetry, short stories, book reports, creative writing class and even novels. I sunk my teeth into any writing prompt I could get my hands on. I was on fire. But as we all know fires burn out. Eventually school was over and real live began. I was busy with work and friends and a relationship. For several years my passion faltered. I worked at two libraries and fell back in love with reading. I thought being surrounded by books and readers would make me fall back in love with writing again too. I found that the more I read the harder I criticized my own work. There was no way my words would piece together and create books as amazing as the ones I held in my hands. I settled with the thought that writing was no longer a part of me and my talent had been a figment of my imagination. I wondered why so many encouraged me when I was younger, why they complimented something so obviously underwhelming and amateur.  

It has taken me most of my young adult life to find my way back to writing. The ideas of stories have never stopped pulsing through me. I filled pages of notebooks with story ideas stuck in my head that I had no idea how to translate onto the page anymore. I didn’t know where to start and I was still terrified to fail. My husband stumbled across a publishing opportunity one day. He turned to me and excitedly told me about how I could publish my writing. There was a spark in his eyes. A spark that felt like he had found a chance for me to return to something he felt I loved. Something he felt I needed. I grasped that feeling and picked up a novel that I hadn’t touched in nearly a decade. I read it and re-read it, editing and changing and adding to the story I had been so proud of so many years ago. Soon I had a novel I was ready to take a second chance on. I was ready for a second chance at believing in myself the way so many had believed in me. So, I put it out there into the world. I stripped myself down and bore my creation the way I should have had the courage to do when I won the writing contest. It was time for redemption and I was more ready than ever.  

So, here I stand. I stand at a podium similar to the one in my school’s auditorium. A copy of my book lays before me opened to the first chapter. The smell of the bookstore I stand in reminds me of my days as a librarian. Wooden seats filled with fellow bookworms sit before me. The room is buzzing with chatter and my stomach is filled with nerves. I look to my husband in the front row and he gives me an assuring smile. I nod back and take a deep breath as the room quiets and the attention turns to me.  

“Good evening everyone. Thank you for coming out tonight. My name is Christina Napier and I would like to read you a chapter from my debut novel.”