A long time ago my mother told me a story of how she visited a card reader. This card reader told her that my life on this celestial plane would be my last reincarnation and I would be moving on. Over the years I have dwelled on this far more than I care to admit. One, I’m not sure I believe in reincarnation, but if I did, where the hell am I moving on to?
So with this thought in mind, as I grow older, I feel as though my time is running out to do the things I love most. I’ve had a feeling of being limited on time to accomplish the things I want to achieve in life.
I remember playing in my brother’s room as a child. There we planned out our future careers. We were both going to be lawyers because they made a lot of money. A year or so passed when I had changed my mind. I must have watched a pageant show or something; I had a dream about fashion or maybe I was having a flashback to when I modelled. I wanted to become a fashion designer. I drew outfits and even had material swatches. This too was short-lived. Over the years my ideas changed as most do in life. Architect, until I realized you needed to be good at math. Veterinarian, until I realized I would have to put down animals. Teacher, until I actually taught ESL in Mexico and realized I was horrible at it. Being emotional and far away from home I’m sure didn’t help.
But there were two things I always loved more than anything. Writing and movies. I decided to give both a whirl in university. I’ll never forget my Art of Film classes. I was going to school to watch movies. How fantastic! That year on the lineup we were to study/critique my favourite movie, Scream by Kevin Williamson. I quickly realized as much fun as it was too watch movies for school, it was also horrible. There’s nothing like watching a movie over and over and ripping it to shreds. I was stuck in my own Groundhog Day, also, another movie we critiqued.
Surely my Creative Writing class would be better. After years of getting great marks in English, studying and submitting my work for others to critique was nerve-racking. I wasn’t ready or mature enough to handle constructive criticism. I was quick to throw away any thoughts of writing for fear of anyone’s judgment.
Ten years or so pass and I found myself having lunch with an old friend. We got to talking about different concepts, dreams, life and our existence on earth that sort of thing. I brought up an idea I had in my head for a while when he suggested to me that it would make a good book. I kind of laughed it off, but he was serious. “Why don’t you write a book?” Could I? Would I dare dream to go back down that road again?
This is where I made the promise to myself that I would write a story. I didn’t care how long it took me to write. I wouldn’t care what people thought about it in the end. I was going to complete the book no matter what. I was doing this for me, I wanted to prove to myself that I was capable of creating something.
It took me five years to complete, followed by another year to edit. When I thought it was complete I had a few friends read it, I guess technically they would be considered my beta readers. This was the test. The consensus, I wrote a good story. However, my grammar needed much attention. After this, I worked hard and even envisioned the cover of my book. I had a fun time with that and then before I knew it, the book was complete.
The next step, inviting my friends and family to come to witness my achievement; I was going to throw a book launch. I was so excited to share my work it didn’t occur to me not once that someone wouldn’t enjoy what I wrote. I was just so happy I completed my story. The book launch was an overwhelming success and I had landed on the store’s bestsellers list two weeks in a row. I had made it.
And that’s how I became an author.