The unspoken dream of being an author

For my very first blog text I thought I'd tell you about my journey to becoming an author.

(Photo: Kjell Olsson @LaPlusValue)

See, I remember the very second that I decided to become an author. Don't get me wrong. I always loved writing. I mean essays in school... SCORE! You're given a random subject and an approximate length, maybe even a genre and then you're given free rein to make up a story. I mean how cool is that? Whether it was biology (first essay: a thrilling study of the moth as seen from the viewpoint of a fifth-grader), history (a study of racist, post-colonial advertisement) or Danish (a chronicle about the idiocy of reality television, as seen from the point of view of a sullen fifteen- year- old punk with silly blue hair who now, a decade later, watches Masterchef (UK and Australian) and Strictly Come Dancing religiously. My point is that through writing we can express pretty much whatever we want. When I was fourteen my head teacher pulled me aside. She was a frumpy little lady with hair tied up in a tight bun, though her bangs framed her spectacled eyes. She had amazing dress sense, I remember wishing I could dress like her when I grew up. And as far as I could tell... she absolutely loathed me. And to be honest, the feeling was mutual. Our introduction was less than warm. This was a couple of years earlier. I was nine. In the summer leading up to the worst first day back at school of my life, my mother had cut off all my lovely hair. I loved my long hair. I mean come on- I was a nine- year- old girl! And the hairdresser messed me up! Truly! Atop my head, where my beautiful long hair used to be... was a big fluffy bong. Imagine the head of a microphone. So I walk in to school, first day back after a two- month holiday. I didn't have many friends so very few of my classmates had seen the horror that was my head.

To this day I do not know whether my teacher was dyslexic or just as Danish as she came off that day. She went through the register as usual. I sat at the back, head down, as sullen as though I was already a teenager, waiting for the inevitable mispronunciation of my name. I mean come one. It was the 90's... FRIENDS was on tele for goodness sake. Rachael was no longer an exotic, unpronounceable name. And yet what came out of my teacher's mouth was.... RaFael. When no one responded (I decided beforehand not to let further mispronunciation stand, absence or not) she looked across our faces, scanning for the person named Rafael and her next words were thus, her eyes pointed straight at me: "Is that HIM? At the back? Answer me boy." Great. Cheers lady.

So when this same teacher pulled me aside five years later, I was still prepared for the worst. Don't get me wrong. If there was one thing she always loved, it was my writing, even if it was often too long, even if it was often a little vague, even if it at times went slightly off topic. Our classroom was in the apartment block next door to the actual school. Not enough space for the expanding amount of kids. She called me out into the hallway. She patted the step next her, inviting me to sit. My ripped jeans, "decorated" with all manor of symbol I didn't understand, threatened to rip further as I sat down. My hair had grown out again. I vowed to never get another haircut and five years on, I hadn't. Frankly it looked most like a bird's nest, but it was all part of the grunge look. We were all supposed to be considering our futures. Was it going to be high school? Technical school? An extra grade? Extra classes? Or something artistic? The world was wide open to some. But my route was laid out already. My mother always pushed me into the academics. The stabile route, the smart route. So high school it was. Majoring in Mathematics and Biology, German as my third language. You know, stabile, logical, smart. So this teacher is looking at me, my latest paper on her lap. I can see her scribbles all over the page. Damn, it's gonna be a fail.

"Have you been considering your future, Rachel?" She asked me. She never did get the pronunciation just right. "Yeah, yeah of course I have" and I tell her my decision.

She looks almost disappointed. Or maybe just reserved. She probably already knew that I was never going to be satisfied with a logical, stabile education, let alone a logical, stabile job. She handed me the paper and it was the second highest grade. Not a first for me, but I still felt that usual swell of pride. She enjoyed my writing. "Have you ever considered becoming an author?" I sort of look up at her in a daze. Of course the thought had struck me, but I didn't want to put my hopes into it, my whole life. I wasn't ready to take that leap of faith. "No. No, but I will. Do you think I'm good enough?" It was the first time she ever smiled at me. "I think you are driven by your emotions, young lady. And it would be a shame for you to not utilise your imagination. You truly write beautifully, but you need to learn some restraint."

I went on with my plan and I finished high school, no closer to figuring out what the hell I was going to do with my life. I took two years off to work, to do some soul searching and by the end of the second year, all I could think of was my old head teacher's words. And so I went off to University. Ignoring the three years I'd spent learning about molecules, the digestive system and the differential system and instead I spent the next years studying linguistics, English literature, English history. And I loved every moment. I knew then, that I was going to make it as a writer, but I still didn't have the fortitude to sit down and finish a full-length novel. I'd get half way and delete the lot, only to immediately start something new.

And then, two years ago. My son was born. And in his eyes I saw what the future could bring, if only I could finish this story. This story about him. And thus, Jack Savage, Prince of the Allagis was born. I finished my first manuscript. And not just that, I edited it. And then I edited it again. And finally I sent it off. So I suppose one thing has changed. When I was ten, I only dreamed of becoming an author. It was a silent hope! Nothing that could ever be voiced. Voicing it would only make it more painful if it failed. But I no longer think it will fail. The winds are changing, and it will be favourable. I just know it!