Heart and "Soul"

After seven years of writing and publishing for children, I followed a whim and ended up with my first credit in an adult publication: a story in a Chicken Soup for the Soul collection.

It started with one of those coincidences that at first seems unimportant, but takes on significance later. I’d been putting some family photos in albums, which led to the inevitable hour or two of looking through all the albums, since I’m kind of a sap that way. For some reason, I paused over a picture of my oldest son, Matthew, taken on the day he was learning to ride his bike without training wheels. Although it happened almost 20 years before, I had a weird sensation of being in that exact moment again. I remembered very clearly how it felt to watch him riding down the sidewalk—away from me. I remembered how my initial sense of pride in his accomplishment was quickly doused by the cold-water sensation of “wait a minute—where do you think you’re going?” Holding the picture in my hand, I was back on that sidewalk again, overcome by the feeling that something special and important had just happened, whether I liked it or not.

I had to put the picture away then. Although I had gotten used to the fact that Matthew had grown up and gone off to college 1,500 miles away, I still missed him. I still had moments of nostalgia when I wished I could turn back the clock and enjoy his childhood—and those of his two brothers—all over again.

A few months later, while perusing an online writers’ bulletin board for market news, I came across a message from the Chicken Soup publishers. They were looking for real-life stories for a new book on the topic of empty nesters. How does it feel, they wanted to know, to have your children leave home? I immediately flashed back to the picture. It feels like standing on the sidewalk, watching them ride away from you. Knowing that it’s good and right for them to go, knowing that things will never be the same again.

With my youngest about to graduate from high school and another empty bedroom in my near future, I knew I had something to say about this topic. I did it in a story I called “Just Keep Pedaling.” Though I typically rewrite and revise a story to within an inch of its life, this time I left it pretty close to its original form. I submitted it to the publisher’s website and then, knowing how slowly things move in the freelance writing biz, put it out of my mind. It wasn’t until many months later that I learned they had received over 5,000 submissions, and that against those odds, mine was one of only 101 chosen.

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Empty Nesters came out in Oct. 2008. My story had a new title (“Pedal Power”… hmmmm), but it was a thrill to see it nestled there among the other hundred stories and poems, helping shed light on a bittersweet time in every parent's life. It had come straight from the heart—and I think that's exactly how it ended up in Soul.

Dreams Coming True

If you go by the definition “one who writes,” I’ve been a writer for a very long time. My original plays have been performed by my childhood friends, by my nieces and nephews, by the local Cub Scouts. I’ve written articles for my high school newspaper, the Parent Council newsletter at my kids' school, the annual report at my workplace. And my silly, sentimental poems have been a regular feature of the Valentine cards I give my husband and kids each year. It all adds up to a lot of writing.

But the day I knew I was an “author” happened in the year 2000. I’d recently started a new job and was still learning the ropes, so when I pulled into the garage that evening I was tired. My youngest son, David, met me at the door, looking as if he were about to burst from excitement. “Mom, you got a phone message! It’s from a lady at a magazine!” My husband saw the incredulous look on my face. “It’s true,” he said. “She wants you to call her back.”

The next day, hands shaking and heart pounding,
I did. Eventually the publisher sent a contract,
and months later, a check. One day, I finally held the magazine in my hands, with my byline inside. But I still count that day, the day of the phone message and the shining light in my son’s eyes, as the one that a lifelong dream had come true—I was a published author.