As I sat, curled up in a crocheted blanket on the armchair, I was lost in the world I was creating on a humble A4 lined notepad and blue Bic ballpoint pen. My dad hovered between the living room and the back garden keeping an eye on my brother, sister and I as we went about our chosen activities. He was never one to just let us get on with it, he monitored our moves to keep us safe and in view. It had been snowing for a few days, my younger brother and sister were happy building snowmen and being outdoors, I was the opposite, I enjoyed the winter from the warmth of our home.
I was around 8 or 9 years old when my first story was written. I had it titled, chaptered and planned out so well that when I proudly showed it off to my teacher at the school, he read it out to the class then asked for feedback.
Oh Mr Taylor, if only you knew what you did that day!
You ignited something within me that I didn’t know some 40 years later would take me on a journey that made me feel whole, complete and content, albeit overwhelmed, scared and insecure.
Not telling my classmates that I had written it, you stood proudly in front of 26 or so 8/9-year-olds, using my humble story as an English lesson! You had read it beforehand and had praised me on such a well thought out, detailed and exciting storyline that you said was ‘beyond my years’.
I felt so proud at that moment like I was going to be the next Enid Blyton (Yes, I was a huge fan!) That day, as I sat and listened to you read my story, add in the drama for the conversations and emphasised certain words, not only did I learn more about creating something capturing but I learned that I loved writing more than anything else. You asked for feedback, you questioned everyone’s viewpoint to expand their thinking and understanding. I was inwardly jumping up and down with excitement that the other kids were enjoying it and wanted to know more, and more, and more.
At the end of the lesson, you pulled me aside and asked if I would add more chapters. I was a shy, quiet child and usually had to be prompted to volunteer any public speaking or showing of emotions but I almost spit out a loud ‘YES’ before he’d finished the question! My childhood dream was realised.
That afternoon as I walked down a short (though it felt long at the time) hill from my classroom to the gate where my dad was waiting, I confided in my best friend, Louise that it was my story that Mr Taylor had read out.
“No way!” she whispered a little too loud.
“Don’t tell anyone!” I made her promise.
From that point on for the rest of that month right before Christmas, I spend night after night writing and writing and writing. It was finally the time to reveal to my class whose story they had been listening to and commenting on.
I have to add here, I wasn’t bullied* in junior school, but I did have 2 girls who were nasty as could be at any given chance when were had to share the same table, a small part of me was concerned about their reaction, another part of me was smart enough to know that they would finally know I was smarter than them, at least, smarter in that I used my feelings to write instead of annoy someone else.
Both of those girls went on to have huge issues in life, drugs, alcohol, multiple dysfunctional relationships and one of them died far too young. My life has been far, far from perfect but I am by far on the ‘nice person’ side of the fence than they ever stood to be, though I’d like to have learned they’d both turned out better as an adult than they were as a kid.
So, in English, I sat up straight, glancing at Louise holding in giggles of excitement. Not only was Mr Taylor going to reveal who had written the story but it was finally finished and he was going to set a piece of homework over the Christmas holiday for the class to write their own story! I had a million and ten ideas what I was going to write about, it was so hard trying to narrow it down to just one!
“Quiet down, class” he called rather loudly.
We were a pretty good class, to be honest, we were all in the pre-social media times where kids were kids, and it was the done thing to actually like school. We all quieted down and waited for Mr Taylor to speak. He sat on the front of his desk, he always did that, and it always felt as though he was interested in talking to us, I didn’t understand anything about psychology or body language back then, our class loved Mr Taylor because he genuinely liked us and showed it.
“So, we have the last 4 chapters of The Little Orphan Girl then the story is done.”
The class groaned.
“Is there going to be another book?” a kid called Kenneth called out.
There was my Christmas homework decided on, book two!
“Well I don’t know, how about we ask the person that wrote it?”
The teacher looked directly at me, and I felt myself go beetroot. The kids followed his gaze and looked at looked with stunned, surprised expressions right at me.
SHEER EMBARRASSMENT
I didn’t see that coming! One by one my classmates were showing their confusion.
“Deborah (we were more formal in those days too, god I feel old now!!) is the person who wrote this story that you’ve all loved so much, didn’t she do well?” he actually looked proud.
I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. At Mr Taylor’s lead, the class applauded. Everyone except Lisa and Karen. My not so friendly peers. That day we read the last of the chapters, on the final one I was invited up to the front of the class to read it myself. I was mortified. I could happily speak to anyone in that room, individually or in a small group but not like this. I knew I had to hold it together, Mr Taylor knew I was struggling, so he changed it up a bit. He invited five other kids to speak the parts of my characters, and I would be the narrator. Ok, I could work with that. We all got a standing ovation, I kid you not!
I received a box of chocolates and a brand new, thick A4 writing pad and pack of pens as a congratulatory gift that day. My classmates were congratulating me, the headteacher was called in to give me a certificate (I can’t remember what it was for exactly he’d created it for that story) and even my two nemeses’ were pretty ok. Well, that’s if you consider one totally ignoring me and the other saying ‘it was good’ as she nudged past me in the cloakroom.
Again, I got to my dad at the school gate feeling like I was the only person on the planet to have written a story. If I remember correctly, Mr Taylor even told my dad how impressed and proud he was of me and my creativeness.
Fast forward 14 years (aged about 23). Add in 2 children and a part-time job. The writing was a distant memory. After the primary school scenario, my next encounter with a written story was as a Childcare project in high school, aged 14. I’ll share that another day, that’s another considerable experience that got lost in the void of growing up.
So I worked part-time, raised my kids, had a pretty good social life, built a lovely home and forgot all about writing. Well, that’s if you don’t count the bureau, latest electronic typewriter, a selection of papers, inks, pens and notebooks neatly stored in the corner of my living room. The visual that stayed as only that, a visual, for many, many years.
Fast forward again, oohh about 24 years (aged about 47). Add in two more kids. 5 Grandchildren. Multiple disabilities. Two divorces. Many house moves. Multiple businesses. And a whole lotta lovin’, livin’ and rockin’ rollin’.
I woke up one morning around 4am, it was becoming a habit, I reached over to put my led lamp on (they are easier on the eyes when you don’t really want to wake up!), reached for my journal and pen and started writing. I had no real idea what I needed to write, but I did it almost without thinking. Reverse those moves, and off I went, back to sleep. Some 3 or 4 hours later when I woke up to the alarm screeching at me (does anyone else have to have an obnoxious alarm sound?!!!), I forgot all about the earlier incident. I leaned over, grabbed my gratitude notebook and immediately allowed my sub-conscience list out 10+ things I was grateful for, a morning ritual I’d gotten into a while ago, thanks to my growing interest in personal development. I don’t remember how long after that 4am note session that I remembered it, but for days and days, I had this ‘voice’ in my head about a storyline. I didn’t give it any attention, I hadn’t got time for it.
Then another 4am came around and this time not only was I prompted to write a few lines in my journal, but I was inspired to wake up a little more. It was going to be a long day if I had to start it at 4am!! By 8am when I took Charley to school, I had written out an outline of the story that was trying to come through.
A very basic outline.
But it was a story. ish.
That day I spent the whole day curled up on the sofa with my penguin fleece blanket that my daughter had bought me the Christmas before, and my laptop, completely immersed in this storyline. I only came up for air when the dog barked and scared the freakin’ life out of me.
Hot dog anyone?
I looked at what I had written, 24 pages in Microsoft Word. I actually laughed out loud. My mind was cast back to that winter back in the late 70’s when I was obsessed engrossed in my very first story. That feeling of passion, urgency and determination engulfed me again.
Insert: In my late 20’s I’d taken a couple of writing courses, gained some qualifications but did nothing with them. Nothing. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was my real purpose. After all, I’d always been called a dreamer. I’d always loved writing, journaling, blogging etc. I always wanted to be a writer, a published author. I just never thought I could do it.
No-one ever told me I couldn’t though.
Fast forward one more time, 2 more years (aged 49 and 9 months) I had been in network marketing for 2 years. I struggled with the network side because I’m an introvert mixed with extrovert but only when I felt like it. I loved (and still love) my products but something in the back of my mind was always overreaching somewhere like something was missing. I’d embarked on a personal development journey a year or so before and had probably saved thousands on therapy when I realised I no longer hated or felt pity for my ex-husband or wanted to re-write my entire existence.
Instead, I found a sense of peace, a calm and an inner acceptance along with much, much more. I also understood the importance and power of treating oneself respectfully, on all levels. This changed how I connected with other people, how I viewed and treated myself and generally looked at life.
Then I had a ‘face reading’ one day which would be a massive turning point in many ways. I was told that ‘my discomfort with my work life is based on what I know is right versus what I want to know is right.’
This was one of many statements that I new had some truth in it that I wasn’t acknowledging yet at the same time it was like a bloody riddle!
A very long story short, I took myself off, my laptop and I and wrote an electronic entry to my journal (which I never ever do, only with a book and pen) and after a few hours of sitting in nature, on my own, I knew where I had been and why, I knew where I was and I knew where I was going. It took almost 50 years to find my purpose. My heart felt alive and full. I had lost that invisible weight on my shoulders. I had some work to do to step into this new recognised self but it didn’t phase me, I felt on fire, alive and ready.
I had a direction that I knew I was brave enough to take even though I had a lot to learn. Uncertain how to get there or even where to start. Then a resounding phrase I’d heard from Bob Proctor time again came to me:
START WHERE YOU ARE.
So I did. I started drafting my story.
Because this blog post is a lot longer than I’d initially planned, I’m going to write a part 2, that one won’t be as long as this (Phew, I hear you!) but it’s very encouraging, and there’s something I want to pass on to you, so please check back!!
Debs
- Back in the day, bullying was a very different thing to what it is today. Back then I would be teased for being shy, or wearing something someone didn’t like. It wasn’t constant but by today’s standards, it was not bullying per se. Ironic that my first book is about a 10-year-old bully, his victim and how they fixed the situation.
The Magic Tepee Series 