A Cabin and a Wolf

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a writer. I also wanted to live in a cabin in the woods, with a wolf for companion-protector, where I could compose my bestselling books in peace. The funny thing is that I didn't really write that much when I was younger, but I read and read and read. I loved books.

I really liked wolves, too.

I wanted to be a person that contributed to that wonderful world of literature, but all of my ideas were young and unformed. I started a lot of stories that I didn't finish, and I wrote a lot of stories that sounded suspiciously like books that I had recently read, and I even began fantasy novels that were horrendous. I know. I kept some of them, and sometimes I look over all those old manuscripts for a good laugh.

Now I've hit the big 3-0 mark, and I still want to be a writer. I have my ups and downs, good weeks and bad, good years and bad, but I keep slogging away, convincing myself that I really can do this. I generally finish my stories these days, and I am even finishing an actual novel. I've tried submitting my work to a few journals and agents, but haven't had any takers yet. So how different am I from that little girl twenty years ago? I still read way more than I write, I still have huge dreams of joining that ghostly world of ideas and dreams spun into words, and I still don't know if anyone but close family members and friends are ever going to read my attempts. The only real difference is that I have traded in my naive confidence for skill and persistence. Sure, I've trained and matured in my writing, but I miss that little girl in me, the one who knew with certainty that someday she would live in a cabin in the woods with a wolf and write bestsellers. I want to have the same belief in myself that she had. Someday. Someday.