A lonely world…or is it?
For so many of
us who embrace the writing life, loneliness has been a long-time companion. One
we are
comfortable with and often embrace. We started as readers, tucked away in the
living room, book in hand,
tuning out family and friends. Or, under the covers of our beds, flashlight
trained on the pages of the book we
couldn’t put down until we’d read the very last word. All because we were
caught up in worlds that
took us away from the life we lived day to day. Stories of adventure and
bravery made us believe in
things like magic, love, and forgiveness.
For me, that’s
exactly the way it was. Through books the world me around blossomed and grew by
leaps and bounds.
Inside the pages of books like Rebecca, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and
Fahrenheit 451, my world
expanded immeasurably. And then somewhere along the line books written by
others could no longer tame
my growing imagination and I began to put down words of my own. It started
slowly. Nothing so
grand as a novel. No, it started with poetry that found its way into a
magazine. Then short stories.
Finally, it was time to make the leap. My first novel was born.
The introvert
who preferred solitude to companionship had to get brave. After years of hiding
behind books and even
behind my own written words, I had to find the strength to let the novel go. So
I did. And I failed.
Miserably.
It would have
been easy to let it go and put forth the sentiment, “at least I tried.” But had
I really? The answer, even
when hiding in my own lonely world was: NO. Yes, I’d been rejected and yes, the
writing left a lot to
be desired, but how many of those writers whose works I adored had been through
the same
experience? Reluctantly I had to admit that the answer was probably most of
them. So, I tried again.
I failed
again.
And then I
tried some more. Along the way I learned and with each successive word, I
learned a little more. One day,
a letter came. With it came my expectation of yet another rejection. Except, it
wasn’t. With that
letter, my life changed. I was no longer an aspiring novelist. I was to be a
published writer. What I never
saw coming was how the shy little girl who read nearly every book in her grade
school library was no
longer lonely. Writing had given me something more than the joy of creating
imaginary worlds and the
satisfaction of learning I could succeed. It gave me friends. Many, many
friends from other writers
to editors to readers. Earnest Hemingway once said “writing, at its best, is a
lonely life.” I always thought
he was right, but that’s not the way it turned out for me. Writing opened up
more than imaginary
realms; it opened up my real world and let in friends from around the world. Loneliness might be the
hallmark of a writer, but friendship is the reward.
Sheri Lewis
Wohl
sherilewiswohl.wordpress.com
Check out Sheri Lewis Wohl's vampire romances from Bold Strokes Books
Hello, Sheri,
ReplyDeleteI applaud your persistence - and I'm so glad it paid off for you. Also, I wholeheartedly agree. Some of the my closest friends now are people whom I have never met in person, the other authors with whom I've shared my joys and my disappointments.
Good luck with the next book!