Wait! Is it them or is it me?

“It’s gotta be me. Right?!”

August 2022

If ever I was asked, I would easily describe myself as being more spiritual than religious. I’d always felt that there was a higher power (God?) out there in the universe somewhere watching over me. And, absolutely, showing me signs to help guide me in life. I really do believe in signs.

There had been so many obvious signs that solidified my decision to retire and focus solely on my dream. My children were grown, my loved ones had survived Covid-19 (thank the universe!), and one of my dearest and closest friends had passed away.

In March 2022, after officially retiring, I quickly established, and stuck to, a writing schedule. As with any dream, I had to balance my selfish ambitions against my real-life obligations to my kids/husband/home/farm, carving out precious time each day to just write. And, behind the scenes, I began sending out submission documents for my now completed creative nonfiction book, The Deafening Sound of Sorrow. Once again, I stood literary naked—exposing myself to publishers and agents—while mentally preparing for the most dreaded part of the publishing game; rejection.

When summer hit, I had to toggle my hours of creativity with the upkeep of our acreage by switching up the daylight hours with first tackling, at dawn, the never-ending maintenance of our property. I would cut the grass in the early morning hours to avoid the impending summer heat, then hunker down in the afternoon to write when the Saskatchewan sun was at its hottest.

If muscle memory serves me right, my first rejection for When a Crow Flies felt like a mosquito bite. I swatted the disappointment away and then scratched the itch of doubt by becoming more determined. Then reassuring myself it would only be a matter of time.

In June, I received my first rejection for The Deafening Sound of Sorrow, and it felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.

When I recovered, and stood up straight, I screamed up at the universe, How could they not see the author I was born to be? How could they not recognize it when they read my words? The universe hit back, twofold, and its response felt like a punch to my face, driving new thoughts into my thick skull. Wait a minute, is it them or is it me? Maybe I wasn’t the writer I thought I was? Maybe I wasn’t even a good writer. AND MAYBE, I really didn’t have what it takes to be any kind of writer? (I know a bit dramatic, cut me some slack—regardless of what “they” say—I am a writer.) It would be the first time I doubted the true meaning of my reoccurring dream that had haunted me my entire life. Damn you, universe!

Six months into my retirement, while sipping a cup of coffee waiting for the sun to peek up and over the horizon, I flipped open my lap top and read an email from a literary agent in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. The minute I had seen her picture and read her bio, I absolutely knew we were destined to be together! We would not only make a great team but we would, for sure, become the bestest literary friends.

Thank you for your submission, but unfortunately at this time…blah blah blah.

I slammed my lap top shut.

Heart broken, I gulped down the rest of my coffee, brushed my teeth roughly while mumbling curse words under my breath and at my reflection. Still scowling at myself in the mirror as I pulled my hair up and into a tight pony tail.

I slammed the front door shut and jumped on my riding lawn mower to cut the grass under the rising August sun—to sulk in peace.

After a few rounds of cutting, even Celine Dion’s voice blaring through my head phones telling me my heart would go on couldn’t lift the heavy dark cloud that covered and followed me around our yard.

When something caught my attention from out of the corner of my eye, I jerked my head sideways to see my handsome son fast approaching, driving the side-by-side. Thinking something was wrong, I hit the brakes, quickly lifted the sharp blades, and shut the engine off. I pulled my headphones down and off my ringing ears, letting them straddle my neck. I watched Jarrit slow down to a full stop a few feet away. After casually putting the Ranger into park, he then sauntered towards me holding up a bottle of water.

The bottle reflected brilliant rays of sunlight.

“Hey Mom. You okay?”

Both my hands flew up to cover my scrunched-up face. My answer to his question was, I burst into tears.

I felt his arms around me in a tight bear hug. “Mom?! Mom?! What’s wrong?”

When we finally pulled apart, he took a step back to look down at me wearing a mask of concern.

I explained my heart break. About how I was so sure that I had written this amazing book and about all the hard work I had done to research and then to send out numerous queries only to get rejection after rejection after rejection. “What the hell was I doing this for?! What made me think I would ever get published?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. I just continued to babbled on and on about how this pretty literary agent that I sent one query to in Toronto had rejected my work…obviously it didn’t really matter if she was pretty or not but I really thought we would make a great…I stopped mid-sentence. His expression had changed from concern to disapproval.

“Seriously, Mom! Did you really think you were going to become a published author in what? Six months?” He yelled at me over the roaring traffic coming from the busy highway just a few yards from where he stood and I sat.

Utterly offended, I wiped my tear-streaked cheeks roughly with the back of my hand, thinking about his rude question. “YES!” I yelled right back at him, nodding stubbornly. Why the hell not?

He shook his head. Then he patted me roughly on the shoulder. “You’re going to do it, Mom. I know you will, but it’s just going to take time. In the meantime, why don’t you sign up for creative writing classes online or join a writing group?”

My mouth opened. When no witty comeback fell out, I clamped it shut. Then pondered the idea. When a smile spread across my face I wondered, Why the hell hadn’t I thought of that?

Which was quickly followed by another question: How did I raise such a smart kid?

Under my breath, I thanked the universe.

Coming up next: Writing Courses, Circles, Conferences and All That Jazz! (spoiler alert: Writers are weirdly special).