They’re manuscripts I wrote years and years ago.
I’ve got an envelope that goes with them.
The first one is dated 1994. The last 1999. Old me was pretty persistent, I’ll give her that. And then some other things came along, like a career, and a child, and home education, and house moves and career changes, miscarriages and more children.
Through all the moves the box travelled with us. It’s lived longer than it should have done in garages. I don’t know whether all the pages for the story I’m most attached to are actually there any more. From the contents of the rejection slips, there should be a hard copy somewhere about – it could be in a completely different box though.
I don’t know if the writing is any good. I’m guessing not, given the rejection slips. If I can find the beginning, I’d like to read it through and give it one more go. One more rewrite, one more round of submissions.
Why? Because, if I don’t I run out of dreams. All I have left are regrets.
I know I still have the children, and the home education, the fledgling business, the blog. But none of those are my dreams. Children are dreams in and of themselves, their future is their own, you can’t live vicariously through them. It’s that old roots and wings thing – you have to set them free. A business is a good thing to have, but it’s not going to affect people’s hearts and lives and somewhere in me, there’s always been that wish to do that. My blog doesn’t quite hit it (which scares me that maybe I don’t have what it takes, maybe my writing really isn’t that good, maybe I’m destined to just stack up rejection letters (emails? Do people even submit hard copy any more?) ) and anyway, it’s not stories.
I want to tell stories. I want to weave magic, create worlds, change lives and make people wonder.
Is that so very much to ask?
What are your dreams – will you share them with me?