Dear Mom,
No one reads this blog anymore, which I consider a true gift because it means that cancer is no longer at the center of my being. While I may "publish" this blog, I consider this a private communication. The only people who read it will be those who still think of me (or people who once followed and wonder, "Is that girl still alive?" Ha!) Well, I am still alive. Still very, very alive. So I wanted to write you to you here because this blog was where writing really started for me.
Three years ago around this time, you gave me the opportunity of a lifetime. You told me that you believed in my idea for a book enough that you'd support my dream to take a year off of teaching and write it. I will never ever have the words to express my gratitude for that but I'm going to give it a little try right now.
One of the reasons I love being a teacher so much is that I honestly believe a teacher has the power to help their students build their dreams. On a day to day basis, the work doesn't look like it involves dream-building at all (like not even in the slightest) but I still know it's true. A teacher can help a student believe in themself, help them think (even if it's deep in their subconscious) I can do that. I can learn that. I can be that. I can. Then the really great teachers can help students learn and execute the how.
When students believe they can, it's because they have found one of life's most precious gifts: hope. Hope makes us believe that we can take the infinite pieces of being human that the universe hands us -- in whatever shape, color, and size and in whichever degree of pain, pleasure, and practicality -- and build our one life. If we get lucky, we have time to do it.
Today I figured out something: the beauty of I can is surpassed by just one other belief. It's not I did (didn't Gatsby teach us anything?), but rather I will.
Mom, you and Dad have always been my greatest teachers. You both have always made me believe I can. There is nothing more in the world I hope to give my kids than that belief.
Today I realized what's next, and it's on me. It's the I will.
I wrote that draft -- that embarrassingly-bad-piece-of-total-crap 430-page draft. And it's sat there for over a year. I've been too afraid to look at it again. Too scared of how much work it's going to take to make it real. To make final decisions about what a character does and says. To add, delete, punctuate. I'm terrified to put my name on it and show it to the world and somehow try to believe that it's worth someone's time to read it. Don't get me wrong -- I have not overcome those fears, not even close. And I'm not really inspired nor excited about the prospect of finishing this thing. It's just that it's time.
Maybe that's part of the process of writing a novel or achieving any dream -- just deciding, it's time. And then getting lucky enough to have the time.
On Monday you'll come with me for my chest scan. That's always scary, no matter how routine it may be. Thank you for being there from the first scan almost twelve years ago to this one. Thank you for convincing me I can. And thank you even more for making it possible for me to actually do it -- showing me the how. Being part of it, in all it's lazy, imperfect, very-unfun reality.
And now, it's time for me to check this damn dream off the dream list and get it done. So, mark my words. I will. By the summer of 2025 I will send this damn draft out to 10 agents. Even if it's so bad that they don't even read past page one.
I will.
Thank you for that.
Love you always,
Me
