Full Circle

As many of you know—especially if you read my memoir—when I was in school, I absolutely hated to write. Writing was the most painful, tedious task in the world. Cleaning my room and doing dishes were both preferable, though Mom never did make me clean the bathroom. If she had, I might have found something I liked less than putting pen to paper. (Yes, I’m old. When I was a kid that’s how it was done. There were no screens back then, just pen and paper. Our hands hurt, but we got over it. The teachers didn’t give us a choice.) Actually, it wasn’t just writing I despised. It was English. I didn’t like to read either. However, my hatred of reading began to subside in my Sophomore year when I had Mr. Madri. He was fabulous. He brought literature alive to the point where I wanted to read because I felt like I was missing something fun if I didn’t. It’s not many teachers who can make Beowulf fun. I’ve tried, but even I can’t channel his energy in my classes. But I digress.

In Madri’s class, I went from being a poor student in English to getting As. In fact, my relationship with books took such a turn that when it came time to select junior year classes, Madri insisted I take honors English. He was so adamant that he refused to sign off on my selection until I acquiesced. My parents were skeptical, but ultimately they agreed. I don’t think anyone—me included—actually expected that I could be successful in an honors English class, but Madri’s faith in me was not misplaced. 

By senior year, I had done a complete 180. A mix of animated and engaging English teachers combined with boring science teachers who encouraged me to quit playing sports to spend more time doing science work, made me go from loving science and struggling with English to hating science and wanting to immerse myself completely in the humanities. As a result, I dropped science and doubled up on English, taking AP and world literature. Mrs. Barracelli—the wife of one of the Science teachers I despised—was my world literature teacher. She was the first English teacher who gave us creative writing assignments. Not only that, she was the first English teacher who handed back an assignment to me and said, “Have you considered submitting your work to the school literary magazine?” I had not. Why would I? I was the kid who hated writing. The one who struggled with getting words down on paper. The kid who thought the idea of writing ridiculous. 

“No,” I looked up at Mrs. Barracelli, then down at my paper, a red ‘A’ circled on top. It was a Civil War story—historical fiction. 

“You should. Your writing is good. You capture emotion well.”

It was the first time anyone told me that. That what I wrote was worth reading.  That—dare I say it—I had talent. I curled into myself, feeling embarrassed by the compliment. “Thank you,” I said, my voice sounding small. 

Even though Mrs. Barracelli thought my writing was good, that didn’t mean anyone else would. What if I submitted my work and it was rejected? Or worse, what if it was published in the school literary magazine and people who read it criticized it. I had always been the outcast, the student who struggled to make friends. The kid most likely to be made fun of. Putting myself out there, exposing my inner thoughts through writing, would only make me more vulnerable. Did I want to do that to myself?

Apparently, I did. I have absolutely no recollection if I ever submitted that historical fiction story, but I did submit poems which were published. It was my first literary publication. And my basketball coach at the time did joke about the poems, saying they were so short they hardly qualified as writing. It hurt, but he was somewhat of a buffoon, so I didn’t let his words hurt me too much. Just a little—obviously, since I still vividly remember the sting.

Ironically, I never again wrote historical fiction, and while I have published a couple of poems in online literary magazines, I will never say they are good. In fact, my poetry is so bad, I gave up trying. But I’m still writing contemporary stories and personal narratives. If someone had told me back in high school—even after those poems were published—that I would grow up and want to be a writer, I seriously would have laughed at them. Yet, here I am. I still struggle with rejection. In fact, I’m kind of amazed I’m still plugging away at writing, considering the fact that rejection hits me so hard—all the time. 

After a decade of diligently sending out query letters and receiving one rejection after another, each one sending me into another tailspin of depression, I finally had one memoir accepted for publication by a small independent publisher. My hope had been that with one book out in the world, I might have more success with others. Alas, that has not been the case. Rejection, followed by bouts of depression, still haunt me. I know my writing is good. Mrs. Barracelli may have been the first person to tell me it was, but she certainly wasn’t the last. Even the few reviews I got for my memoir were favorable. So why do agents continue to reject me? I can speculate. But are the reasons I’ve devised in my head a reflection of reality? Or creativity? I honestly don’t know.

Despite the rejections, I keep submitting. But isn’t that the very definition of insanity? Doing something over and over again but expecting different results. For years, my spouse tried to get me to quit writing. The depth of my depression was sometimes all encompassing—at times paralyzing. Yet how do I give up when I feel compelled to create. I wish someone could tell me what to do differently, why my children’s books remain unwanted. I read a great deal and I know my work is better than some titles that get published. I just finished a middle grade book that I found boring. It was difficult to push through it. What did an agent see in that work that I didn’t? What do they see in books like the one I just read that they don’t see in mine?

The last couple of months have been hard. Yes, my book was published in September, but I’m beginning to think it might be the only book I ever publish. The rejections seem to hit a little harder every year. Even the press that did publish me never responded to my more recent submission, the one I sent in six months ago.  At what point do I listen to my spouse and give up trying? It’s been weeks since I’ve written anything. I wrestle with doubt on a daily basis and I can’t remember the last time I won. Why continue to put time and effort into something when failure seems the only result.

To distract myself from my indecision, from deciding whether or not I’d be better off without writing, I decided to get involved with the literary magazine at school. Since I have published, I do have something to offer young and aspiring writers. I suggested that the magazine move to an online platform. We live in a generation where teenagers live on social media. They post stories and selfies about themselves wanting that hit of dopamine when someone reacts to their pictures and posts. If their writing was published online, they’d be able to share their work far more broadly than when it’s printed by an old school copier. 

I finally finished the website for the school’s literary magazine, which you can see here. It’s basic, but it's a way for students to share their work and feel special. The first deadline to publish is coming up this month.  So far only one student has submitted work, but we are meeting next week. I am hopeful that we might get a few more submissions so that we can publish the first round of student work before Winter Break. 

It was Mrs. Barracelli’s words—“Have you considered submitting your work to the school literary magazine?”—that first got me thinking seriously about writing. I guess I’ve come full circle, wanting to be that positive voice in someone else’s life, wanting to give someone else something to aspire to.

Although, there is a tiny voice in my head questioning if it is wise. Has my dream of being a writer brought more pleasure or pain? More excitement or disappointment? Would I have been better off if Mrs. Barracelli had simply placed the paper on my desk and kept walking without saying a word? Will I ultimately create more pleasure or pain in the lives of my students by encouraging them to write and submit? The writing life is a lonely one, especially when chasing an outcome that seems more and more elusive. But it’s only high school. The only reason students should write creatively is for fun, because they enjoy it. I think it will be nice to be a part of that, to remember what it was like when writing could only be equated with pleasure. Maybe it will help me to get back to the simplicity of it. Remind me of why I initially started to write in the first place.