It's my dad's fault I've spent more money on notebooks than I've earned from
words written in them. From the age I could hold a crayon and comprehend
I shouldn't scribble on walls stationery was in plentiful supply. During
my formative years, a paper-mill firm employed my father.
He brought home reams of product quality control rejects. I eyed them
with enthusiasm, itching to scrawl my hieroglyphics. As my mastery of the
three R's improved, I was the only 7-year-old on the block with
leather-bound notebooks (albeit defective). I admired my paper hoard,
believing it meant only one thing: I was destined to be a writer. But when a
new notepad appeared, I would start a new story regardless of whether I had
finished the last I liked my tablets dog-ear free.
A quarter-century later, the paper-mill converted to a boutique mall and my
dad fond of saying, "You live beyond your means," I still dreamed of being a
famous writer. My vocabulary had grown age-appropriately (and my cursive).
My self-discipline and output, however, remained that of a child. Perhaps
less I was a prolific 7-year-old, after all.
Still, the dream stuck. A calfskin-bound journal with linen-finished pages
shrieked, "Buy me," begging to be filled with my prose. I would reverently
begin a piece, with the help of a carefully selected pen. But when
coffee-cup rings stained the book and it lost its leather smell; my writing
was as stale and uninteresting.
A new masterpiece began when the next journal beckoned. I would tell myself
this was "it": the story that would be published (I could justify any
expense for an inspiration fix).
It was last spring I had the "Aha" moment. It came in Wal-Mart. Shopping
with my 7-year-old daughter a blossoming writer she insisted I buy her
a brightly covered journal.
"Why do you want another one?" I asked. "You've got a ton you haven't
written in."
"I know," she said, "but I need it to write a story."
"It doesn't matter what you write on," I said, sighing at the extravagance.
"If you really want to be a writer, anything will do."
"Aha!" I thought, hearing my own pithy wisdom. I bought her the journal
she'll learn her own lessons, her way and came home. Grabbing an ordinary
legal pad, I wrote a piece with an ending, which finally made it to
publication.
It didn't make me famous, but it was a start. I proudly cut out the clip
and stuck it in my journal.
About the Author
C.S. Paquin is a nationally published writer in both the business and humor
markets. Cheryl has a Master Of Arts in Journalism and has been writing
freelance for over five years. She contributes regularly to regional
publications in Minnesota. She is the owner and editor of
http://WritersLounge.com and the author of a new e-book: 101 Paying Markets
for Essays, Columns & Creative Nonfiction, available at:
http://writerslounge.com/101markets.html