It Keeps Me Up, Some Nights...

I pretty much always wanted to be a writer. I can remember one moment, in particular, which solidified this idea: it was in my grade two or three class (I get the two confused, since they were both in the same classroom), when my teacher handed back a story I'd written, with the comment, "Very creative! You should be a writer!" And I thought, at the time, yes… yes I should.

So, I began to write, voraciously. I completed a novel (which shall never see the light of day) at fifteen and outlined and started one with my sister at seventeen. I poured my feelings out in poetry and brought imaginary worlds to life through short stories. I bought books on writing and the writing market, and even collected some rejections. I thought - man, I want to be a writer.

Since then, of course, I've grown up. I'm now 34. I've been living a full and rewarding life as a teacher of English Language Arts for the past 11 years, a Mom for seven of those. These two things are more satisfying than any other thing I can imagine myself doing. I am absolutely happy.

Last year, I published my first novel, Amber Rain, with my sister. So now I can add "writer" to the list. And I am still absolutely happy. 

Something all three have in common, though, is the great moral responsibility. To be honest, whenever I think about it, I feel some kind of horrible mixture of nausea, dread, and terror. This is because I believe I will be accountable for the things I teach and profess. And what if I'm doing it wrong?

I mean, you have no idea how sick I feel every time I go to do Romeo and Juliet with a class of impressionable, young, fourteen and fifteen year olds. Now, I emphasize the things this classic play teaches (beyond the beauty of the language) - that communication is essential, the parents may actually be on your side if you trust them, that rash decisions don't pay off, that while there is life there is hope - but I worry that all they see is two tragic lovers who had no choice but to take their own lives. What if THAT is what they walk away with? That when life gets too hard, the logical choice is…? Every September - dread.

And parenting - obviously, if you're a parent (at least one who lives in the real world) - you've gotta believe that you may, at times, teach the wrong things. For example, my husband and I are big time coffee drinkers. My four year old son will call out before we go anywhere, in horror - "Mommy! You forgot your coffee!" The kids hear us talking about how we "need" our coffee, how we "love" our coffee. I see the future - two coffee addicts in the making. 

Then there's writing. Writing. I love writing. I love speculative fiction writing, in particular. The first book I published, with my sister - not much in there to cause me concern. I mean, mild violence, but nothing, I think, disturbing, and certainly nothing heretical. But my current favourite piece, the novel I am hoping to have published by a small press publisher one day - it's a speculative fiction with allegorical undertones. I wrote it as a reflection of our spiritual battle, with redemption and forgiveness as themes  - but I lie awake, worrying that the story itself portrays the wrong thing, that somehow I missed the mark with what I was trying to do, to point in a direction I wasn't intending to point. I've already promised myself I will never independently publish that one, so if it's meant to be, it will be.

Of course, personal decisions fill me with doubt, too. Was that movie really one that I should have spent my time seeing? Do I value material possessions too much? Was that story I told funny or was I gossiping? But these things, at least, will only have an effect on me. In teaching, in parenting - and in writing - there's a wider scope of impact. And a greater responsibility, I think, to make thoughtful choices. 

So I try my best to make the right choices. To teach, parent, and write, as often as I can, in a way that is good, edifying, truthful. And all the while, I am thankful, oh so thankful, for grace. 

Now, off to bed, to stare at the ceiling and worry about this blog post.