The U-Haul truck banged against the wall of the storage unit building as I backed up to maneuver it into its parking space. This was the third time I had backed into that wall. Was this a metaphor for the need I had to bang my own head, repeatedly, against the symbolic door I was closing behind me? Perhaps the wrong turn in a one-way drive represented a wrong turn in my life. The truck’s empty bed represented all that was lost or given away and reminded me of all the things dropped in my brother’s garage awaiting their fate – donate, take, or toss in the go-to-the dump pile. That U-Haul represented the pain of moving on.

The original intent of this post was to discuss the anguish of tossing out a life I wanted to keep and how difficult it is to create a new life and how discarding things from the past, though necessary, isn’t cathartic. But yesterday I opened a box I had deemed important enough to pack into my car. It contained manuscripts. My manuscripts.

I pulled out a 300+ page novel I’d put aside to gain some distance from it before tackling the editing process. Next were the first five chapters of a children’s novel based on my child’s fear of the shower. There were folders with children’s short stories, the adult stories written for my creative writing class, notes from my writing group on my novel, and a 100 page novella written for the Three Day Writing contest – a marathon writing session over a Labor Day weekend. This box contained my life’s passion. It held the remnants of the happiest years of my life, but also the most frustrating years of my life.

Stuck in a house in the suburbs, surrounded by a political and religious culture to which I couldn’t relate, my life revolved around carpools, volunteering in my children’s classrooms, baseball games and ballet classes, part-time jobs, and all the necessary chores of keeping a household running and a family nourished. I spent mind-numbing and bum-numbing hours (some weeks up to 20 hours) in a van transporting children from school to home or to friend’s houses or to after-school activities. They did not attend school in the neighborhood, so sometimes these trips could take us miles away from home to meet a classmate for a school project. Mostly I was happy doing all of this. It was a necessary, yet fulfilling existence. There is much to be said on being a family’s anchor. I knew I made a difference. And every time I am with my children, I know this was not time wasted. But something was missing and I filled that void with my passion for writing.

It might have been Faulkner who said, “If your resistance to writing is greater than your desire to write, then just give up…you are not a writer.” I never had that resistance. I’ve written since I could actually write. As a child I wrote stories, beyond my scope or comprehension, of adventures featuring myself as the seemingly boring, ordinary girl who transformed herself into a heroine. Creative writing classes were mixed in with my college business and computer classes. While working as a computer programmer, I often used my lunch hour to write. One year I collaborated on a musical revue script with fellow insurance nerds who came together to sing and play in the company band and chorus. And through all those years of carpooling, I wrote. I also collected a box full of rejection slips. So maybe I don’t have a natural talent. I did have the passion to write about my nondescript and, what many would consider, colorless life. It was that life that fueled my passion.

So what happened? What makes us give up on our dreams? In my own case, I decided to better myself. I decided to prove myself to the world and to give myself some credentials. Apparently a business degree, that I wasn’t using, was not enough proof that I had merit. I went back to school and pursued a second BA in History, telling myself that this would help me in my historical writing. It wasn’t a mistake, really, because I loved school and of course, writing term papers and exams never intimidated me. I found, though, that I needed to get A’s to prove my worth to the world. Five semesters of French, two of which resulted in a B+, destroyed that goal. It was ironic, though, that my best creative writing happened when I had to write stories in French. (It’s too bad my poor grasp of French got in the way of a good story.)

Going back to college opened up a whole new set of insecurities for me. My rejections must have meant that I was not a serious writer. That’s when I made the fatal mistake of taking myself too seriously and going on for an MA. Again. Must get A’s. Must prove myself. Here’s the thing: I do not like academic writing. I do not like trying to find an obscure topic and making it important enough to forward a career. It hit me one night, as I slogged through yet another revision of my thesis on French labor theory, that my strengths, my talents, my passions, are not in proving my great depth, but in writing about ordinary things and perhaps, making fun of myself. I’m better off when I don’t try to be serious. Passion happens when we stop trying to impress others. Passion happens when we are true to ourselves and understand that writing comes from within, even if there’s not much in there. My monetary worth as a writer is roughly $250, but the emotional high I get as a hack is much, much greater.

This journey to my truth cost me a lot personally and financially. All my school notes and A exams? I chucked those folders into the go-to-the-dump pile. But the box of rejected and sub-standard manuscripts? I carried them to my new home and when I opened the box, I smiled and remembered the hours of bliss I enjoyed writing such crap.

I have two new boxes set aside. One is for my latest work-in-progress and one is for the many rejection slips I will encounter along the way. I’ve rediscovered my passion and I’m working toward that contentment I had so many years ago. If good writing and enduring stories must be filled with tragedy and unhappy endings, then I suppose I’ll never make it as a serious writer. Getting back to reality doesn’t always mean facing the bad things in life. Reality is the present moment and while sometimes it is not pleasant, there are realities that are happy and fun. Writing should reflect the tragedy of a life not lived to its fullest, but also a life filled with the inconsequential smatterings of fluff. I guess that the fluff will be my contribution to the world of literature.