MARGARET:
If I were to say that I’ve always wanted to write; that I’m driven to write, and that the discovery of a new word sends me into raptures, you would likely nod your collective heads in understanding that such is true for all writers. I would, however, be telling the tallest tale I’ve ever told.
I did not even think about writing until I was into my fifties, had retired from employment and was looking for a hobby with which to fill my time.
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There was little point in thinking long-term because, after all, my other hobbies had each enjoyed a shelf-life of only about five years. That is except for the cookie-baking phase which my kids begged me to abandon after only a few months and their latest orthodontic appointment.
I discussed options with my sister, Skylah, who pointed out that my talents run to nothing in particular. “You’re sort of good at everything,” she rushed on to say. I knew she’d only added the second sentence because she felt guilty about the first. Still, I let it go and soon we were laughing over some of the mischief with which Skylah had occupied herself when we were children. Little did my dear sister know that the worm of an idea was wriggling its way through the clutter to the forefront of my brain. And then it burst forth with a fine degree of enthusiasm. Could I do it? Could I record Skylah’s misdeeds for posterity?
So home I went, and wrote my first Skylah story. I knew it was wonderful. All I needed to do was send it to Woman’s Day and they would adore it; beg me for more, and ask me whether I had a PayPal account to which they could send remuneration.
The only question was did I have enough stories to keep me busy for five years? Probably. Skylah had been very, very bad.
While I awaited acceptance from Woman’s Day, I ruminated on how the writing life would suit me just fine. First of all, I could sit around all day in baggy old clothes, or even my nightgown if I so desired. I could be as reclusive and eccentric as I liked and folks would expect nothing less from such a creative soul. In other words, slobbism was in.
Meanwhile, Woman’s Day was taking longer than expected to reply. My manuscript must have gotten lost. I sent another copy. Wrote another Skylah story, and then another.
As it turned out I had only five or six Skylah stories. Not enough to keep me busy for five years. I went on to write other stories though, and before I knew it seven years had passed, and then ten.
Perhaps I should continue this hobby for another few years. It’s better than having to act normal and, heaven forbid, buy new clothes.
I’m still awaiting a reply from Woman’s Day.
Margaret B. Davidson
