“I wish I could write.” The young girl looked at me with dreamy eyes, her emotion segregating her from the merging crowd at the youth conference where I’d lectured and taught classes.
“I wish I could too,” I smiled.
“But you have published books,” she replied.
“Yes. Does that make me a writer?” I answered.
“Of course,” she concluded.
Someone behind me touched my shoulder and said my name. I turned to answer. The crowd closed in and for the next half hour I answered questions and signed books, programs and even some napkins. When I could look up again, I searched the crowd for the face of the young girl with dreamy eyes, but I couldn't find her. Later on the plane as I flew home, I thought about her. I was that age once. I wasn’t aware then, that I wanted to become a writer. My thoughts went back. Had I ever really wanted to become a writer? And if I’d known the pain it would cause me, would I have ever gotten into the field? Where was the beginning? I thought back again. I remembered. I'd gotten into writing almost by accident.
Writing found birth into my system at BYU Education Week one summer. Education week was my personal vacation and training time. My friend and I had arrived on campus and filled up our class schedules except for one hour. For that hour we hadn’t found anything we wanted to take.
“Here’s a class about writing,” I said.
“I’m working on a youth roadshow. I could use some ideas.” “Sounds good,” she said. We joined the class for that hour every day. We chuckled together as the instructor talked about submitting a manuscript of a book to different publishers. A book? My friend was an avid reader, but she had never written anything but letters. I had written a few skits for the youth, but certainly not a book! However, we found the class interesting and promised each other if we ever did write anything we would let the other one read it.
When I got home I sat at my typewriter and put together a story about young romance, based on the truths I knew about dating, friendship, and high standards. Before I had time to think or loose courage, I quickly dropped it at my friend’s house, and went home with a knot in my stomach, a little embarrassed for asking her read my words and reprimanding myself for the action.
“It's good,” she told me the next morning on the telephone.
“What about letting me read it at a youth fireside?” “You’re kidding!” I exclaimed.
“I'm not kidding. I liked it. Why don't we try it on the young people?” “All right,” I agreed.
“You read it, but don't tell them I wrote it. I need an honest reaction.” The youth at the fireside responded to my story and it moved from one age group to another. I was excited about the reception of my simple story. When it was revealed that I was the author there were phone calls from some of the youth to ask me about the characters. They talked about the characters in the story as if they lived next door. It was a beginning, but what was I to do with it?
I wrote another story and an article called,
“Green Willow Days,” about the way my mother raised us. I gave it to a girl to present at a mother daughter evening. Again, I didn’t let them say who wrote it. After the program quite a few people asked the girl if they could have a copy of the article. I sent it to local magazines and to my complete shock they published it! A youth story called,
“All For a Date,” followed and it was published too.
“I've made it,” I remembered saying to myself.
“I'm a writer!” Foolish girl. A story the kids liked and two published articles and I thought I was a writer. But the courage those experiences gave me, allowed me to put together an entire book. The book was
“Beyond This Moment.” It was the story and mystery of a religious girl, how she thinks and lives in a world that doesn't share her beliefs. The theme throughout the book was 'marry in your own kind' and look beyond this moment to all the tomorrows to come, before you make choices. It took me a year to write it.
The book went the fireside route of readers. The youth seemed to love it. Once again I tried to get it published before the fireside groups wore the manuscript out. It was time to try publishers. I contacted several I thought might be interested. The answer was always a resounding
“no!” “Fiction won't sell. We don’t publish fiction. The best thing I can tell you to do is forget it,” one editor said.
“Save your time and heartache.” She was an editor I admired and her words were discouraging. But I couldn’t stop there. I took it to another local publisher. After reading the manuscript, the editor called me.
“I think we need a romantic novel,” he said.
“The kids haven't any good love stories to read. We'll give yours a try and see how it goes.” Delighted, I stayed up nights going over the manuscript for one last time. However, when I met with the publisher they had decided that fiction wasn't commercially feasible, and had changed their minds about publishing my book. They were a small company and the editor explained that one book that didn’t sell would take the profit out of their business. They didn’t dare take the chance. I went home disappointed.
“I'm never going to write again,” I said to my husband.
“Who wants it?” I said slamming the manuscript down on my desk.
“All that work! I haven't time to spend writing if it isn't going to do anybody any good. I don't want to be a writer anyway. I never did want to be a writer.” “You'll write,” my husband said, looking up from where he sat on the floor polishing his shoes.
“How do you know?” My voice was sharp with hurt.
“You don't even read anything I write.” “I know,” he said in his half-truth, half fantasy voice he often used.
“But I've been to the movies and the heroin always gets to be a writer if she wants to . . . after she's suffered enough. That's your problem, Shirl. You haven't suffered enough! When you have suffered enough, then you’ll be a writer.” I snorted a kind of laugh. It was hard not to laugh at Milt's kind of logic. But strangely he encouraged me and later I found out how right he was. His words became prophetic. He wasn’t judging my work. He hadn’t read any of it, but then I rationalized it was better he didn't read what I wrote, that way he could encourage without being critical.
I didn't write again for a while. I moved the manuscript from the desk to a shelf and there it stayed. My busy family life and activity in my church and community took over. I was back doing roadshows, and I put together some condensed versions of Broadway Musicals with a friend of mine who played the piano, and we toured the valley with the manuscripts. I sang all the parts and added narration while she played the piano. It was an enlightening and interesting experience. I loved singing and acting. It was much more rewarding than my writing had been.
Then one day I received a call from one of the boys in our area that had graduated and was now teaching youth in the Middle East. He’d been part of the fireside group that read my first story.
“We need some stories, Shirley. We need stories like you tell . . . some romantic idealistic stories. Write them down, will you?” “I'll try,” I promised. Then the old nagging feeling of writing came back to me. I realized it had never left. I’d just put it off because I didn’t want to face failure. It was still inside me. I had to admit it. But that was a busy summer. We were moving. Again I shelved the book and tried to run away from what I felt inside.
We moved from Salt Lake to Highland, Utah. I was busy decorating our new house and getting the children settled in new schools. I disappeared from public appearances and church jobs for a while. But as I finished decorating and painting the new house, the nagging drive and my promise came back to me. I realized if I was ever going to write, and satisfy the inner urge that had developed through the years, that I would just have to make time for it.
Every day I'd hurry as fast as I could with my regular schedule so I'd have time to get to the typewriter. I just had to get to the typewriter. There seemed to be a nagging urgency that wouldn’t leave me alone. But once at the typewriter by myself, I'd sit and wonder what to write.
I could write when the PTA president asked for a program, or I got an assignment for a youth group skit, but when I sat down to write something I wanted to write, nothing came. Then I'd reprimand myself, vowing never to write again, and give it up. For a while this was a daily routine. Then one day while I was painting with the radio on, I heard an interview with a well-known author.
“How did you learn to write?” The commentator asked the author.
“In boot camp,” he replied.
“On my day off. I bought myself a typewriter and then I'd check out novels from the library and type them.” “Type the whole novel?” “That's right . . . I learned to write by typing book after book.” “How long did it take you to write your best seller?” the interviewer questioned.
“I worked on it for fourteen years!” I started thinking about that author. When I'd finished my painting and sat in front of the typewriter the next day, I reached for my favorite book,
“Gone with the Wind,” opened it up and started typing. What a big help! I didn’t come up with any wonderful ideas but it put me in the mood for writing. After typing about four pages of the thousand page book, I stopped and said to myself:
“This is crazy. I just about have this book memorized. If I'm going to type a book why don't I type my own?” I took
“Beyond This Moment" off the shelf and started to retype it. It didn't take long before I began to be very glad the publishers had turned me down. The book was full of problems. It was disorganized and I was preachy and repetitious. Then I began to have fun.
The characters of the book were set. I knew each personally, as if they were real and living next door. The plot and purpose and theme were also set. Now I could concentrate on mechanics. I would read through a chapter, figure out what I was trying to say and then rewrite it. The rewriting went faster than I'd thought possible. I'd never liked rewriting before.
My husband came home early one day while I was sitting at the typewriter.
“Your book?” I nodded.
“You've worked so long on that book, why don't I publish it for you?” “No, I've taken enough classes to know that if a book is good enough, a publisher will publish it with their money. Besides, I don't care if it's ever published or not. I've learned so much about myself and other people, just having written the book that it's been worth every minute I've ever spent writing it!” I didn't know that truth until I said it.
“Don't you want to publish it?” he persisted.
“Only if it will help somebody. And I've tried every thing I know. If Heavenly Father wants this book published, he'll just have to do it himself.” I thought I was only kidding. I’d certainly prayed enough about that book. Now, for the first time, it wasn’t my desire, it was . . . what did He want me to do with my book? The words just slipped out, but from that moment on, things began to happen.
When I’d finished rewriting all but the last two chapters, I asked my friend if she would read it for me. She liked to read and accepted the assignment readily. As I left her I was thinking how busy she was and that it would probably be a long time before she could fit my novel into her schedule. I was mistaken. She called me the next day.
“Shirley,” she said, and there was excitement in her voice.
“I started reading your manuscript while I waited for my ride to an appointment. I read some more when I got home, while I left the tomatoes I should have been bottling sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. I read until the house was cold. I got in a tub of hot water and read until the water was cold. Then I went to bed and got up to read again this morning. I'm almost to the end, and I need those two last chapters.” With new incentive and encouragement, I finished the last two chapters and dropped them by. She was very enthusiastic about the book and thought I should try again to get it published. But where? I had already tried all the publishers I thought would be interested in my story.
The next day I went to church. As I went through the swinging doors, a friend who wrote for the newspaper passed me and said:
“Shirley how are you doing with your writing?” Surprised that he even knew I was trying to write, I said:
“Oh, I'm still playing around with it.” “When are you going to get serious?” he said, as he continued down the hall.
As I moved to the choir seats his words stayed with me. During our church meeting I observed the people in the congregation. On the front row was a man that had some of his formal writing published. I wondered if he could suggest anything to help me. After the meeting I found myself standing next to him.
“Can you tell me how I can find out if a manuscript is publishable?” He was very kind.
“I don't know,” he said,
“if you’re talking about creative writing. But there are two brothers that live in Alpine and they sell books. Maybe they can tell you.” I'm terrible at names, but that evening as I sat by my desk, the names he'd mentioned came back to me. I opened the phone book and called one of them. I didn't know him and he didn't know me. I asked him the question.
“How can I find out if a manuscript is publishable?” “I can tell you,” he said confidently.
“I sell books every day.” “What will you charge to read my manuscript?” I asked.
“I'm leaving on a selling trip tomorrow. If you want to drop it by, I'll take it with me and read it. I'll be glad to read it without charge.” Maybe it was because he was a man, and the book was written for women and girls, and maybe because he was in the book business, not a friend, or a relative. Friends and relatives aren’t reliable critics, they are always either too kind or too critical, thinking they are helping. But this man, who called me when he got home, made me believe him.
“Let me tell you about your book,” he began. I began to shiver. I always shiver when ideas take hold of me. He explained.
“I like to get a lot of sleep on the first night out on a book selling trip. I picked up your manuscript thinking I'd read a little until I got sleepy. To my surprise, even though I was tired, I didn’t get sleepy. I read into the early morning hours. Then I went to sleep and woke up early to read again. I was late to my meetings the next morning because I couldn’t put your book down. After my meetings, that night, alone in my motel, I blubbered through the last chapters . . . and now I know your book has to be published.” “I've tried to get it published but they say fiction won't sell.” I tried to stop shivering.
“I can put that book on every shelf I have. I've already talked to the bookstores about it. If you can get it published I'll market it for nothing.” “Why would you do that?” “Because I want my children to read it and my brother's children to read it! We need your book for the youth and parents.” Then he talked to me about the characters of the book and ended with:
“I'm a skip reader,” he said,
“but I couldn't skip a word of that book. If I skipped, I found myself missing something and had to go back and read the lines I skipped.” It was a miracle to me. It was a bit of light into the darkness of rejection I had experienced. With his encouragement I went through the round of publishers again. They didn't want to read the manuscript, but they would publish it if I'd put up the money and they would buy some if it sold well. The idea wasn't attractive. I needed a publisher that would read the manuscript and put their money and marketing resources to work.
One morning my book-selling friend called me. He'd made an appointment with a publisher for me. At that meeting, on his word alone, the publishers were willing to go halves with me. They hadn't read the manuscript yet but they were impressed with the experience of the bookseller.
“I think my husband will agree to that,” I said. Then I left the manuscript with them and drove home. My husband was out of town, but before he returned I got a call from the publishers. They had read the manuscript.
“You won't have to put up any money,” the caller informed me.
“Our company will put up all the money for your book, and we are starting with 10,000 copies.” A break through! I didn’t dare get too excited.
Ten thousand copies? I couldn’t believe my ears. Then I began to shake again, this time it was from concern.
My book, my words, . . . in ten thousand copies? It was frightening.
My husband came home the next day.
“I signed a contract for my book,” I informed him quickly.
“I've sold my book!” He stopped and looked at me a moment.
“That's nice Shirl, that's really nice. Well, lets get dinner on; I've got an appointment in twenty minutes.” My husband has always had a way of keeping me humble. That was my first ten years of writing. There were more ahead. I thought of all the ups and downs, the hurts, anxiety, and heartaches. I thought of all the living I’d been through to teach me enough truth and skills to become a writer. And I wasn’t finished. I knew there would be more ahead. Writing is like sailing. I can never learn enough. Writing is a method of learning, a method of dealing with hurts, disappointments and once in a while a touch of glamour, a touch of success . . . and a room full of fans and starry eyed people who, in a moment, want to become a writer.
A vision of my dreamy eyed little friend stayed in my mind as the plane came in for a landing, cutting off my thoughts of the past. Milt would be waiting at the airport. I gathered my handbag and the gifts they'd given me at the conference.
As I made my way down the ramp and back into the present, an anxiety made a temporary entrance into my heart as I thought about my young friend. Was it a fleeting moment, a quick desire that made her want to confess her own desire to write? How much would she have to suffer, and how much would she give up and endure to become a writer? And what would I have said to her if she hadn’t disappeared into the crowd before I could talk to her?
Smiling as I started to leave the plane, I decided what I might have said to her and to anyone who wants to write a book.
“We need writers. There isn’t a better way of learning about yourself and other people. It is personal therapy. It is a great way to get the inside out and make suffering rewarding. Go ahead. Write a book! You won’t be sorry, even if it’s never published.”
Milt and I are now 88 years old. I don’t think either of us expected to live this long, but here we are. We have had a good life, and have enjoyed the children Heavenly Father allowed us to raise. Our children have been choice, and we have enjoyed them.
