I Have Arrived

If you have known me for any length of time, you know of my love affair with words and writing. I have memories of my sixth grade self, carrying around a notebook full of awful poems. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know that they were awful. I thought that they were the be all and end all of poetry. I am thankful that I had an emotional freakout and threw them all away sometime during my high school years. Then again, the emotional freakout should probably be referred to as a moment of clarity.

In college, I did a lot of writing for newscasts, both on our weekly news show and our daily radio newscasts. I didn’t have a lot of time to focus on my creative side but, hey, procrastination always wins out in college and I managed to find enough time to write some more bad, bad poetry. Some of this was encouraged and then caused by another awful poet that I dated at the time. (The highlight of these years is when a girlf friend and I found out that he gave us the same poem. Classy!) Poetry drama aside, I started actively working on personal narratives during this time. Not familiar with personal narratives? It’s the fine art of blogging, my friends.

I’ve been writing on line, in some form or format, since 2001. My writing has evolved in that time, growing and changing as I have grown and changed. Life has continued to give me new experiences to write about, to offer a voice to things that the general public is either not aware or not talking about in large numbers. I keep writing. I enjoy blogging, here, there and everywhere. Part of me has always wanted more than just some words on the internet, though I think those words can hold a lot of power. People are always nagging at me to write a book but I remind them that I have two small children and a pile of laundry that doesn’t seem to disappear. And so, I figured, my writing would always be a somewhat “local” thing for those that know me in real life or that I encounter in the virtual world.

Well, I have arrived.

I have a personal essay article published in the May issue of Redbook. Yes, Redbook. Magazine with a circulation of 2.9 million. While it is not yet on shelves, it will be hitting your local grocery store in a week or two. I received my advance copies earlier this week. Helen Hunt graces the cover (which pleases my Husband to no end).

I didn’t look at the return address as I was opening the package which was white and torn. As I realized what was inside, I ripped faster, yanking out both copies. I stared at the magazines in my hand. And then I saw a sticky note attached to a page. I flipped, found the article and found my essay. I read it. And I cried. Yes, I cried.

True, the words that I shared are emotional. I talk about how my motherhood has been shadowed, but not overshadowed, by the Munchkin’s relinquishment. It’s not an easy subject, especially to shove into approximately 300 words. And yet, I feel I did it justice. I hit on a bunch of different topics that are pertinent to our story without dwelling on any such one or putting my focus in the wrong place(s). I feel good about what I wrote (though I’m sure someone, somewhere will find fault in or with my words).

The best part? The piece came about because of my… blogging! The whole thing has given me a renewed respect for the genre of writing that journalists want to write off as fluff, unimportant and not “real” writing. I’ve been writing my doupa off on the internet for years and years, taking things public in 2005-ish. I’ve often wondered if anything that I have said made a difference, if anyone was listening. I’ve written about being down in the dumps because of the feeling that my writing was nothing, that it would help no one in the end. But, for the time being at least, those fears are proven false. I’ve made some sort of difference. And I plan on continuing on in the same fashion.

I’m proud. I shared more over here. But I’m proud. I feel as if I’ve “done good.” I’ve made some small differences before and this is just another one to add to my list. I’ve continued to make strides in the past five years that I never would have imagined myself making. I never would have painted myself as a birth mother, a reformist or a published writer. But here I stand. Proud.

The only question that remains, of course, is: What’s next, FireMom? What’s next?