From Desk Job to Dream: Writing My First Novel

You ever go into a store and wonder by the office and school supplies section and have a longing to buy a nice notebook and pen? Then just start writing? Feeling like you had a story that you just had to tell? I did, even as a kid. I loved to write.

I would longingly look at the notebooks, and journals and think yes, I have a story I need to tell. My mom would buy me a new notebook, and I would fill it with short stories and journal entries and randomness. I was always happy when I finished writing something. Writing was just easy, and I thought it would be wonderful if I could do it all the time.

When I was younger our house always had books lying around. Historical fiction, thrillers, mysteries, and religion and of course the classics and to my dismay romance. It was the eighties, so a few titles were considered banned or “discouraged.” But that didn’t stop my family. My mom and aunts and grandma were avid readers. They were always passing books back and forth.

My grandma being the one that read the most. She was my babysitter when my mom and dad were at work. And if she had a spare moment, she was reading. When she was really into a book, you could tell. Her mood would be influenced by it. If it was exciting, she was cheerful, if it was at a low, she would be quite almost melancholy. If it was exciting, she would devour it faster. A lot of nights she would read into the early hours of the morning finishing the book.

She would tell me about the book that she was reading. She would read me lines and paragraphs that inspired her. She talked about the characters like they were old friends, family or enemies. Then she would have lively discussions with my mom and aunts about the book.

Looking back on it, their love of reading shaped me more than I realized. Especially the classics and the “discouraged” books. Stories that stood the test of time from generation to the next. Stories spoken about in hushed tones. It was amazing how pieces of paper bound together could hold so much power. The power of those stories passed around made me wonder. Could I create a story of my own on?

But doesn’t everyone want to write? How many say “I want to write a book?” I am no exception. I grew up and became a wife, mom and eventually built a careen in management. Writing was never at the forefront, but the longing was always there. Especially when I read a good book. But working and raising my child and just life in general I didn’t think I had time.

I trudged along daily at my desk it was an endless cycle of spreadsheets, meetings and phone calls. I enjoyed what I did but I hated being stuck there for hours staring at a screen. It was stifling, I would journal when I had time. But life was busy keeping me from it. The reality of it was I just didn’t make time for it. This was my life for 17 years and I have no regrets. I have a lot of great memories and lessons learned.

Then my mom passed away. Writing her obituary and her memorial brought it all back. The sound of her and grandma talking about books and those wonderful memories listening to them. In that grief, I rediscovered that passion for writing. And how much I missed it.

It also made me realized that there was more to life than just work. My career suddenly didn’t fit what I wanted for myself any longer. But I stayed at my desk and continued on autopilot for a couple more years. After one especially trying day, I knew I had to change something.

I set down on the floor with my laptop to document what happened. When I was finished, I felt lighter. Then I thought “why not write a novel?” My mom’s life came to mind. Before I realized it hours and slipped away, I had written 20 pages. It wasn’t good , but it wasn’t horrible. I could see a story taking shape.

“Life happens when you are busy making plans.” Oh, it really does. My life changed again. I became a grandma. It was wonderful, but they were so far away. Rationally we could have made it work, traveling back and forth. However, PTO only goes so far. And more than anything, I wanted to be at least half the nana that my mom was to my child.

So with very little hesitation I moved. My brother and extended family were in full support of my decision. Friends and coworkers asked what I was going to do next, and I would joke “Maybe write a novel.” But those pages I started months before were pulling me to come back.

No hate towards desk but 17 years sitting at one was enough for me. I needed freedom. And oddly enough I found on the floor. I can write for hours there. For me it just feels right. That is where I finished the first draft. It is terrible, but it exist. And now I am revising, and it is getting better, or so I am told.

For now, the purpose of this blog is to take you along on my journey of finishing that novel. Success or failure, I am documenting it. The drafts, the wins, the frustrations even a few lines from the book itself. When I am done with it, I’ll decide if I want to pursue traditional publishing, self publishing, or move on to something new.

Maybe someday my grandkids will think it is cool their nana wrote a book. Really though, I hope it helps someone remember those dreams we had as kids. And if you can go for it. The first step is always the hardest. But usually looking back that first step will be the proudest step in the journey.

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