I have always wanted to be a writer. It’s like breathing to me. It wasn’t that I was inspired by the idea of seeing my name on the cover of a romance novel in a tiny airport magazine shop, or the thought of sitting at a 6-foot pop up table, signing books at Barnes & Noble. Instead, I was inspired by “knowing” what was in me.
My first memory of “knowing” this was around 11, or 12. I was having vivid conversations in my mind of stories that played out that I could see, and I would tell myself, “Remember this, write it down.” Unfortunately, I didn’t, but at that age, I drew. It had to come out somehow. But at 13, I made a declaration to my Aunt Sandi, “I’m going to be a writer!” I had never told anyone this, but I felt safe somehow. I had a connection with her because she was brave enough to be colorful and bold and different from the rest of the family. She had no idea she changed my life when she gave me a brown leather-bound book full of blank pages for my Birthday that year. The inside cover was signed, “Be a writer, Shells.”
After that everything changed. Every day I raced home after school and locked myself in my bedroom, filling my little brown book with poems and lyrics and short stories that seemed to come from a bottomless well. I poured out my heart and soul with a blue Bic ballpoint pen, as if I would stop breathing if I let go of it. But there’s something about that beginning that makes me feel like I am always supposed to remember when I started writing. 50 years later I still have the callous on my finger that my Bic pen caused. I used to hate it because it made my hand look more manly. Women don't have calluses, men do. But now I realize it’s just a beautiful reminder, like a scar made up of all the thoughts and dreams I scribbled down that I didn’t dare share with anyone except my little brown book.
Writing would soon teach me that, “I am not for everyone.” My biggest lessons were when my mom threw my little brown book in the trash can, and when my high school creative writing assignments landed me a seat in the principal’s office to discuss her concern over my content. Neither of these events surprised me, but they certainly shaped me into someone who was more committed to stand in my truth, even if my voice shook.
Life moved on and so did I. And like many people, I soon found myself working in corporate America. I’ll never forget the day I was in a wrestling match with the copy machine, trying to undo a paper jam. Greg Weinstein was waiting patiently so he could make a copy of a contract. He was a friendly guy who had a tendency to wander around and chat with people rather than sit in his cubicle and get work done. “So, what do you want to do when you retire, Shell?” Huh? I wasn’t sure if he asked me this because he was trying to distract me in my frustration, or because he was genuinely interested. But it seemed like an odd question, given that I was only 36 at the time and more importantly, I was in the process of murdering a copy machine.
Looking back, I realize it’s just human nature to always look forward to the next step. We are people and people seem to need and expect progress. Babies learn to crawl, then walk, then run, then jump. Children go to kindergarten, then elementary school then high school then college. Couples get into a relationship, then engaged, then married, then buy a house, then have children. So naturally, we get a job, maybe transfer to another job (or 2), we think about vacation (a lot), and then one day we start thinking about retirement.
As for me – I’ve always wanted to retire and write. I pictured myself sitting at a slightly cluttered little desk with a ½ full cup of coffee, looking out over the ocean or the mountains. The setting didn’t matter as much as the feeling I got thinking about being in that space – serene, peaceful, content and purposeful.
I've always believed that we are all born to do something and it’s up to us to figure that out. Almost as if we make an agreement with God before we come here, knowing “that’s our thing.” It’s like we each arrive ready to take on life with this suitcase full of gifts and purpose and when we are ready to return to Him, our suitcase should be empty because we used everything up – the gifts He gave us, the purpose we came for, exactly as He intended. This is why our intuition speaks to us so loudly about our passions. It’s why we get that “gut feeling” that we either choose to listen to or ignore. In my experience, if you ignore your intuition, it’s like running a red light with oncoming traffic in every direction and expecting everything to turn out okay. I think Wayne Dyer said it best, “If prayer is talking to God, then intuition is God talking to you.”
Somehow, I have finally gotten to this place … retired and writing. I’m no longer using a Bic pen like I did half a century ago. Instead, I’m tapping away at my Bluetooth keyboard that has way too much dust stuck around the number's keypad – and it feels like home. To the best of my recollection, I have written about 50 short stories, 3 children’s books, over 1,000 quotes, and 3 eulogies that I somehow managed to deliver. Today, there are 8 open book tabs on my screen fighting for my attention, and I secretly wish I had 6 simultaneous lives to work on all of them at the same time … just trying to make sure I have an empty suitcase when it’s time.
So, I guess not much has changed since 1972. I still feel like that little girl inspired by knowing what is in me – all those vivid conversations in my mind of stories that play out, and I’m still telling myself, “Remember this, write it down.”
“The two most important days of your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” - Mark Twain
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