One Day, You’ ll See! My Name Will Be In Lights!
I remember these words as if I’ d spoken them just yesterday. I was 15, and once again, being reminded that my particular path was not a“ stable” path. I needed something to“ fall back on”, just in case. Of course, the over-emotional artist in me only heard,“ You’ ll never succeed in this far-fetched dream of yours. Do something else. Something more responsible.”
Everything came full circle for me though, when on Oct. 29th, 2010, I looked up at the digital marquee, outside of the banquet hall we were going to be entering soon, and saw my name up there. In sparkling white digital lights. My fifteen year old counterpart would have been so proud. But she also would have exclaimed a few dozen,“ I told you so!’ s” I still relate to that fifteen year old. On an artist’ s level, at least. Allowing myself to get lost in my work, or the world I’ m creating on paper. Getting annoyed when there is an incessant, constant barrage of“ Momma... momma.... momma...” or“ Honey.... Honey.... Honey....” Or even allowing uncontrollable fits of laughter to consume me, when the next chapter has been completed.
It is that fifteen year old, and her undeniable drive, and passion to create beautiful works of art, whether it be a painting, or a song or even a short story, that pushes me through the frustration, the writer’ s block, and even the times when motivation has run screaming from the house, leaving me high and dry. I remember her goal, and there is just no way I can let her down.
Of course, the years have sharpened a few edges, and smoothed a few others. In my passionate desire to finish“ the next chapter”, there is a patience that has developed.“ It will happen.” In my need to hold a finished book in my hand, a calm has developed.“ No need to jump on the roof, and wake the neighbors.” And in my unbridled infatuation, with seeing my name in lights, a graciousness has developed.( I pointed the sign out to my mother, and had no urge to yell,“ I told you!”)
Throughout this journey, and all of the ripped and torn out pages, that were promptly crumbled and tossed into the waste can, every year that passed, ensured that the woman who published