Somewhere, in
the darkness of the night, I became a writer. With my heart pounding, and words flying
willy-nilly through my head, waking me from a sound sleep, I wrote the first
few precious words down on paper, only to go back to sleep, finding myself
constantly being harassed by these “precious words” while I was, once again,
trying to sleep. God knows I definitely
need my nine hours of sleep, or I am stronger than a tornado, disrupting any
living thing that is in my path…growling like a bear, the next day. But it was what it was, and I entered into
the make-believe world of fantasy and imagination, and smiled as I placed by
mind and body on the conveyer belt of writing that would transport me through
the next nine years of disappointments, smiles, tears, and the never-ending support
of my wonderful husband and family.
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Then, without
ever seeing it hit you, the editing makes its ugly appearance. It approaches you, like a soft summer storm
passing by, and you say, “this is not so bad”, but watch out. The clouds darken, and they release their
load. Editing is unbelievably
difficult. When the book is ready, you
smile, holding the large pile of papers to your chest in a fond embrace, and
then you hand it over for someone to review, believing that you are a great
writer. Don’t believe that for a
second. You’re not quite prepared for
how stupid you can be. It is an eye
opener, for sure, and the storm can drown you.
But you make it through with a little swearing and crying, and lots and
lots of cookies, but gratitude must be shown for editors. Their job is
difficult, and they do make the story better.
After gaining
thirty pounds, I believed that I was on my way to sharing what I thought were
very nice stories, and I was so proud and excited. Here they were. They were real. I could hold them. I remember lifting the covers of each
book. Slowly, I turned pages, one at a
time, deeply breathing in the smell of the ink that I had always enjoyed so
much when I read all of the other books that other authors had written, and I
smiled. I was an author. The time had come to set my creations
free. They were crying out to me,
encouraging my heart and mind, begging me to set them free for everyone to
share and enjoy. But, after it was all
said and done, there they sat at #999,950 out of 1,000,000 books. It broke my heart.
What is so
personal to you is not as important to someone else. So, I had to decide, at some point, that the
work I was doing was something I really loved doing. Something I believed in. Maybe I needed to believe that God wanted me
to share my story so one person, somewhere, would read my words and be inspired. There must have been a reason why my fingers
couldn’t stop typing the words that spilled from my brain. A reason to continue with hope and faith that
something, some day and some how, would bring my stories to light, and,
hopefully, make their entrance onto a bookshelf or a table. Not a bookshelf or table that was hidden way
in the back of the store so that no one could see the beautiful picture cover
that dressed my books, but one day, like magic, would appear when you first
walked through the front door of that wonderful, large bookstore.
My soul. My deepest inner thoughts. I can visualize them sitting and waiting on that table, exposed for everyone
to see, piled on top of each other, proud and glorious, smiling at me, silently
yelling out that someone did take the time to understand what I had to say, and
that all of the lonely days and nights, the nine years of no sleep, were all
worth the tears and the heartbreak that I had endured.
If that doesn’t
happen, which is a true reality because of the competition that is part of this
business, you sit back and look at what you have accomplished. Not everyone can
do what you have done. Maybe you won’t
sell 5,000 books. Maybe you will only
sell ten. Maybe you spent almost all of
your retirement money, because self-publishing is so expensive, but you did
it. You made a mark; albeit, maybe a
very small mark, but it took guts. Guts
to expose your thoughts, and to leave yourself wide open for criticism. That is not the work of a loser. That is the work of an adventurer who took a
deep breath, reached deep down inside their soul, and, slowly, took small
steps, which quickened with hope and excitement, taking them into the world of
dreaming. A world that is very difficult
to hold on to, but also very difficult to set free.
Somewhere in
the night, I became a writer. The words
have stopped, and the money is dwindling, so I am getting my nine hours of
sleep once again. My husband is happy,
but deep inside I am feeling a gnawing presence, and the old familiar words
have started to make their existence known while I am asleep. Should I open the door once again, or do I
turn onto my other side and just go back to sleep? Am I prepared for the hard work and
heartbreak that accompanies writing a book?
Time will tell, but what is moving around inside my brain may not let me
rest much longer. I am hooked to
writing, and I am sure that, eventually, I will open the door to let the words
into my world once again. Hope and
belief are forever waiting at my door.
Sandi Smith spent her time as a young girl combing the shelves of the public library. She has always enjoyed the magic that books have to offer and was inspired by her high school English teacher, Mr. Coolidge to embrace the arts. The author found her calling as a writer early one morning as her first story came to her in the form of a poem. Since then she has written more than 15 children’s books, with her most popular series about the adventures of an adorable spider in the A.R. Achnid series.
Sandi is happily married to her inspiration and husband of 40 years, John. She continues to write for her two precious grandchildren. When she’s not penning a new story, Sandi and John like to camp, kayak and to enjoy the simple life in their home in Pembroke, NH.
Giveaway
Ends July 28, 2018
