In my boxed archive of previously written stories, I found a piece I had written over forty years ago, so old it was typed on paper crinkled by age, like my skin. The letters left imprints on the paper. The story personified the presence of depression; it entered a girl-child at a young age and accompanied her throughout her life. Is fiction ever really fiction? The character, named Cassandra in this ancient version, called her depression The Stranger. When I wrote it, I was taking a Creative Writing class at UT Dallas from a man named Ron Tobias. I loved the piece, thought it was the most profound thing I would ever write. I read it aloud, my first live reading, at a university lit night.
When I reread it in the present, the pages quivered in my hands. I shook my head in disbelief and amazement. By the time I slogged through the first paragraph, I knew it would never have survived either of my two critique groups. The amazement came when I realized it would never have survived the writer I am today.
So far, I’ve changed the name of the protagonist and eviscerated the faux pas of the first page. I’ll change the title. Depression was never a stranger, always a familiar. More importantly, my own work showed me, without harsh words or shame, how far I have evolved as a writer.
I felt as happy as I do when I get an acceptance letter. Hard work, discipline, love of the written word, the joy of creation conspired to make me a better writer.
Shortly after this epiphany, my ten-year-old computer died. First, it froze while I was editing. I tried to reboot, but it froze mid-reboot.
I lugged my ten-year-old desktop to Best Buy’s Geek Squad. Cables and connections. Buttons pushed. Fingers hovering over USB ports. The screen never flickered with one measly sign of life.
“I don’t think this can be fixed,” Jason, the tech, said.
He had fidgeted and tried several different things. Microsoft had already warned me I’d no longer have security updates come October. My son had backed up writing not stored in the Cloud. I remained remarkably calm.
Jason guided me over to look at computers. “How much space do you think you’ll need?”
“A lot. I’m a writer. I’m working on my second novel.”
I bought a computer, pocketed the receipt, and made an appointment for data transfer. It wasn’t until I got home that it hit me. Gob smacked. Calling myself a writer felt as natural as declaring myself a nurse for the forty years I spent in that career.
I AM a writer.