Spark of Life

 My first literary pursuit was in the form of a children's book. I covertly asked a friend of mine to illustrate the pages, assuring her we'd surprise our families with the published book. We even consulted with a friend of my mother's who was a writer, swearing her to secrecy. 

We finished the work and I mailed the manuscript to a publishing house. I was fourteen and very clueless.

When faced with rejection, we did what some writers do, we opted to self-publish. No fancy Amazon for us, instead we copied the pages on a scanner before printing it from a machine nestled beside the family computer. Our distribution included our family members. 

While disappointed, there was a feeling of satisfaction holding the final product of our hard work. The publisher was kind as the book was rubbish and should have been rejected. My friend created lovely illustrations - for her age. My writing, however, had no character development, and instead showcased problematic child behavior. Being a part of an extreme fundamentalist program (quite arguably a cult), it read like propaganda. 

My parents were my earliest cheerleaders, and purchased me a pen, a real pen, a writer's pen. It came in a fancy box lined with silk. The weight felt heavy between my teenage fingertips. My best friend bought me a Little Women journal (a mutual favorite literary work) where I began recording my work. 

I recently came across all of this and appreciation washed over me. Gratitude for an early support system and the recognition that writing was birthed inside me long ago. Though immature in its form, it was truly the spark of life. 

I still have my first rejection that I've kept cradled between the pages of the journal.