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Contributed by Juliette Fay, author of The Shortest Way Home
I never wanted to be a writer. I never wanted not to be a writer, either. The question just never crossed my mind.
From earliest memory, I’ve made up elaborate stories in my head, but as a young person it didn’t occur to me to turn this into a career. I didn’t know any writers. And when I read books, which I did hungrily and unceasingly, I never really thought about who was plugging away to produce them.
Fast forward through a career in human services, marriage, children … and through fifteen years of my husband, who knew my deep love for words and storytelling, badgering me to write a book. I used to say, “Honey, we’ve got a bunch of little maniacs running around here. You write a book.”
By 40, I was home full time with four young kids. I felt physically exhausted and mentally flaccid. To be honest, I was miserable. And of course I felt guilty about being miserable because I had healthy children and a strong marriage, a roof over my head and food to eat—so much more than so many others. How could this not be enough?
Outwardly I tried to present the happy, busy mom. Inwardly I felt my brain was turning to oatmeal. And I was sad and angry, a sort of subterranean bitterness poisoning what should have been—what the world expected—was a joyful chapter of life.
My husband often saw the real miserable me. That year I turned 40 he had a particularly banner year at work. I tried to be happy for him, but deep down all I could see was that he was out in the world doing big things, and I was home in a Ground Hog’s Day of cleaning up yet another mess, loading the washing machine for the umpteenth time, settling the millionth squabble over who pinched who first. I was jealous, and that jealousy leaked like an overloaded diaper.
Over the next year or two, desperation mounted for something that I could claim for myself, something that would lift me from my weary sadness and jumpstart my battery-low synapses. Secretly I wanted to try writing a novel, but I couldn’t imagine even starting until the kids were older.
Weirdly enough, my writing career was launched by a really bad book. It was the worst book I’ve ever read. The plot was ridiculous, the dialogue was absurd, and the characters were caricatures. Fascinated by its badness, I couldn’t put it down.
It had an interesting premise, though, and my brain, as it often does, began to churn on how I might use it. Characters, conversations and an entirely different story arc began to bloom in my mind. The difference this time, however, was my desperation to find something that was mine alone and the provocation of a squandered premise. It was the perfect storm I needed.
And so, instead of just thinking my stories as I had done all my life, I began to write this one down. And I fell in love—with my characters and their problems, but also with words that I could go back to and rearrange, expand or delete altogether if I felt like it. I was in love with the process.
It was like getting to kiss someone you’ve always had a secret crush on. I couldn’t wait to get back to the computer each day, praying for long naps and play dates that would keep my kids happily occupied while I tapped away nearby. It was a mental rush, the kind I hadn’t felt in a long time—maybe not ever. The challenge of weaving a story, pulling on all the threads with just the right tension, was exciting to me every time I laid my finger tips on the keyboard.
Why writing? I have no idea. It’s just what makes my brain happy. Some people can’t get enough of Sudoku or skydiving or Star Trek reruns. Everyone has something that blows their hair back. Fiction writing, I learned, is mine.
At first I was very secretive about it. I didn’t want anyone to think that I thought I was smart enough to write a novel. But by the time I finished, I had shown it to three friends, one a writer and two avid readers, and they encouraged me to try and get it published.
Many rejections later, I did get an agent, but the novel never sold. I’m glad about that now because in retrospect it was a practice novel, and I certainly needed the practice. This didn’t deter me from continuing to write; after all, the original goal hadn’t been publication. I just loved doing it.
People often ask the name of the bad book that started it all. I keep the secret out of respect for the author, who put time and effort into producing it. I have a bad book of my own now, and I have no less love for it than I do for any of my other more successful novels.
Who knows, maybe if it had ended up on a bookstore shelf, someone would have read it and said, “Wow, this stinks. Even I can do better than that.” And another writer would have been born.
Juliette Fay is the author of Deep Down True, Shelter Me, and most recently The Shortest Way Home. Juliette received a bachelor's degree from Boston College and a master's degree from Harvard University. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and four children. When she’s not trying to keep track of her kids or daydreaming about her next story, Juliette can be reached on her website, Facebook and Twitter.
