The Dream

Sometimes when I run across a bit of news about authors or the publishing industry that I find interesting, I share it with my husband. I mean, it’s not like we’re overflowing with material for conversation around here. Yesterday was just such a morning. I told him about the comments I’d read over on Bookends regarding royalties. In case you want to read, the eye-opening information isn’t contained in the post itself, but in the comments section, where authors have weighed in with their personal experiences. Anyway, sharing this with hubby was a mistake. I should know by now not to tell him anything that reflects negatively on writing or the quest for publication. Why? Because his response was, “So, what’s the point in trying?” Meaning: so why even waste your time trying to write something publishable and then try to get it published?

I realize he gets tired of the house not being as tidy as it maybe should be. Not to mention hastily thrown-together meals on those days when I’m stressed because the writing isn’t going well. Or when it is going well and I write most of the day and let everything else around here go begging. In his perfect world, I would meet him at the door with a smile, the mail, and a cup of coffee in hand and tell him supper is on the table and he can eat just as soon as he’s ready. Our ideas of a perfect world don’t often mesh.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s always been supportive, in that he allows me the space to let things go longer than they should so I can sit here at the computer and pursue my dream.

I wonder if it would have been better to leave him in the dark about the industry and the reality. All these years I’ve been telling him the truth, and sometimes he turns that knowledge against me. Maybe it would have been better to let him think that if I get published with one of the big houses, we’d be rolling in money and our worries would be over. Because that’s what most people in the general public think, you know. That when you get published, money is thrown at you by the handfuls. That’s the image that’s been perpetuated by the popular media, in movies mostly, and sometimes on tv. Ha. If they only knew.

The thing is, hubby doesn’t like to see me stressed. He doesn’t like to see me sit here for endless hours in my robe with the blinds closed, cave-like, while the sun is shining outside. He doesn’t like to see me knock myself out year after year, doing something that may never reap any reward. He thinks I’d be happier if I lived my life like a so-called normal person. But what about those days when I’m on top of the world because a scene or chapter has fallen perfectly from my fingertips to the page? What about the incomparable high of a project completed, of seeing my words in print? What about the notes from readers that make me feel I may just be worth something after all? Doesn’t all that count for anything?

Anyway. Yesterday, I spent several hours feeling sad because I knew hubby would be happier if I gave up writing altogether. Part of me wishes I could oblige him, but I’ve tried it before—giving up, that is. It didn’t work out. Not for me, anyway. Writing is the one thing I have that is all mine. It’s the dream I strive for, keep reaching for. Without dreams, there is only grim reality and the daily tedium of keeping up with the house and the family’s needs. I have needs, too, and I’ve reached the age where I’m just selfish enough to try and fulfill them. No one, not my husband or my children, can give me everything I need to make me truly happy. Only I can do that. This realization came only after many years of struggle. There was a time when I had to fight for my right to pursue my dream. Eventually, I won ground, and I don't see any reason to give it up again.

Devon