|
The Shy Writer: An
Introvert's Guide to Writing Success - trade paperback and ebook -
TOTAL FFW subscription with paperback purchase.
|
Our newsletters are delivered via Aweber.com, a
reliable, spam-free newsletter service. Click above and tell them Hope sent you.
The delivery service Hope
has used for years for her ebooks.
This website hosted by GoDaddy. Best online values I've
found for hosting & domain registration. Click here to learn more.
Your ad placed here. See the
Ad Rates page for both
the web site and newsletter rates.
Contests, grants, markets that
pay writers may list at no charge. Send to
Hope.
| |
SECOND PLACE - ENTRY FEE DIVISION - $40 PRIZE - 2009 FFW ANNUAL ESSAY
CONTEST
Keep Your Eyes Shut When You Look At Me
By Jan Henrikson
My friend’s husband keeps naked photos of her in his desk drawer. She
posed for them during a particularly vulnerable time in her life when
she wanted to revive her sense of self through bold behavior. He preserves
them in an envelope with the warning, “IN CASE OF DEATH, DO NOT OPEN!”
glaring from the outside in big black permanent marker.
You bet it won’t take two seconds for their children, or anyone else
for that matter, to tear it open once they find it.
Peek-a-boo. Now you see me; now you don’t.
Such is my writing path. Wanting to express, eager to be heard.
hen again…
I didn’t expect my entire family tree to read the essay about me
losing my then-husband’s car at the height of my alcoholism. It was
intended for other alcoholics seeking support, not for my 85-year-
old evangelical Uncle Vern.
When my dad handed my uncle the anthology that included that essay
during one of their weekly visits, I felt initially honored. I had
flown in from out-of-town, and hadn’t seen my uncle in years. He
peered into the book, eager and open-faced, as if it were a big
piece of Key Lime pie.
“No!” I thought, suddenly embarrassed. “Wait,” I said out loud.
“Here,” I grabbed another anthology my dad kept with the pile of
books he was reading.
I’d much rather Uncle Vern read the essay I wrote about my dad,
his brother. What other father had his kids acting out the voices
of a radio comedy from the 1930’s? Surely Uncle Vern would remember
“Vic and Sade,” starring Victor Gook, Exalted Big Dipper of the
Drowsy Venus Chapter of the Sacred Stars of the Milky Way Fraternal
Order. And his friend, Rishigan Fishigan of Sishigan Michigan.
Better he lost himself in reverie rather than in judgment over my
past mistakes. That’s when it struck me, more deeply than before.
Once my words were published, they were free. Like runaways, circus
performers. Who knew what they were up to? Or who they were hanging
out with? They were out of my control.
It was different with the articles I wrote about other people for
newspapers. I wrote with the intent that my words would express
their essence and attract whatever readers would benefit by their
services or be inspired by their life stories the most.
It helped that my dad was a professional cartoonist. The idea of
creating in private and sharing publicly felt natural. As a little
girl, he encouraged creativity. I couldn’t draw a stick figure, but
writing always felt like my playground; words my playmates.
“Send it out,” was my Dad’s first piece of advice. Then,
“Persistence, dear.” Followed by, “Don’t rest on your laurels.
Success breeds success. When one piece gets accepted, get
something else out right away.”
When my first personal essay got published in an anthology, I felt
the 12-year-old girl I used to be jumping up and down, beams of
love traveling through time to me. My boyfriend at the time grabbed
the book, sat me down and read my story to me. I wrote about my wide-
lapped, big-hearted Grandma. After she died, my family felt her
presence in our house; started smelling her Lily of the Valley
perfume in our basement. I couldn’t believe my words made the leap
from journals to a real book. The little girls I nannied smudged
their fingers on the cover, just happy that I was so happy.
But these were people I loved, people I felt safe with. Over the
years, I was so thrilled that my personal stories, not just my
journalistic profiles, actually got published, that I didn’t let
myself fully grasp just who might be reading what.
Sure, I imagined Readers. But they were largely invisible, invented
characters, not 3-dimensional. When I did get the whiff that they
were real, I pictured them curled up in chairs, engaged in my
stories, privately, with empathy. Even the occasional emailer
offering kind feedback was welcomed.
But neighbors I saw every week? Second cousins who I wasn’t so sure
I wanted to know me on such an intimate basis?
It’s an interesting paradox. Posing naked and warning people not to
look. But that’s why I write. To play with the questions. To explore
the contradictions. To spend time with the seen and unseen forces
that make up this delicious, unpredictable world. Now turn away, I'm
getting goose bumps.
| |
|
Follow FundsforWriters
on Social Network Media:
|
 Tweetebooks!
Mini-ebooks of niche markets for $1.99.
|
High Hope for the Freelance Writer