When I was 11 years old, I was at my reading peak. All I can really remember about that age was that I read everything that I could get my hands on. My hero and mentor was the school librarian, who became the recipient of many hand crafted gifts that I made for Christmas and the end (sigh) of the school year. From the school library to the public library for the summer, ah, that was heaven. Or so I thought.
The summer reading program in my day (circa 1971 at age 11), was more of a reading contest, for everyone in a specified age group was to write a book review to present to the library staff. Each week members of the program would sit and wait with great anticipation and staff would invite children up to receive awards for their written literary genius. And each week I waited for my name to be called but went home disappointed. With no support from my family in my efforts, being a stubborn Aries (something I didn't know I was at the time), mixed in with having the stalwart heritage of a Russian/Austrian/German, I forged ahead to the next week, vowing that I would read greater books and achieve literary success in the next program session.
Surely they were waiting to honor me with their greatest end of summer award and I would be held in great esteem. How could they overlook the works of my gifted talent while I devoured the series of Anne of Green Gables, Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew and others?
How indeed. I peddled home on my bike that last day wondering what I did wrong. All the book reviews sat in a pile on my desk at home, and I shuffled through them, reading the comments scrawled at the bottom of the pages, "Great job", "Very interesting", "Loved that book!". But none of them seemed to matter at all; they didn't like my writing and by virtue of coming home prize-less, they must not have liked me either. Acceptance and self esteem are partners in crime, and this was a hefty crime felt by me at this age.
At this age, I was the tallest person (male or female) in my school and due to having been a thumb-sucker in my infant/toddler years, also had the grave misfortune of having severe buck teeth. No surprise that I was given the nickname "horse" by some of the boys in school. Even though I participated in several sports teams during my school years, I was drawn to reading to escape to a private world where I didn't have to worry about what others thought of me.
And I wanted to write books too. Oh, how I wanted to write! I tried, and then stopped many times. I wrote as required in my English classes in High School. I never quite understood how, if poetry was personal, how the teacher could critique it and comment that it didn't flow, some parts didn't fit, and actually had the audacity to give it a grade. How did that make sense? Maybe I was being too analytical, but inside it was still about acceptance, or the lack thereof. In my early 20's, I went to writer's conferences and workshops, sent away for a writer's course, but never followed through with the production of any substantial work. Dragging my past behind me, dragging my loss behind me.
Even this blog! I can't believe that it's been so long since my last post. I forgot how much therapy is involved in writing and how healing it can be. Sharing this experience has been such a release, and such a relief. Even though people have told me that they enjoy my writing and that they think I am a good writer, it hasn't felt real to me until just now. Because I am leaving the past behind.
Recently, I have started to feel that I can write--complete works, and be accepted for my writing; because at my age, I really don't have anything to lose. Finding out that many writers started at an "older" age, and that Dr. Seuss (who was a Dartmouth graduate) went through 25 publishers before being accepted, has given me new hope and new vision.
I have a lot to say about what I know and how I feel, and I hope that others will enjoy my written words. I don't need to win any prizes. I know I'm not a genius. The braces came off a long time ago, and now the gloves are off too.
