As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a writer. I grew up in poverty under the roof of an abusive foster parent. My only refuge was the writer within me. I would scribble thoughts on torn pieces of paper and hide them away. I would take one out and read it to help get through a particularly bad day. My life was all about survival. Getting through one day to the next without a beating was my daily goal.
In high school, English class is where I developed an enduring appreciation of writing. My teacher was strict but caring. He added so many tools to my writing toolbox. I am forever indebted. He emphasized the importance of sentence structure and paragraph organization. I learned how to put my thoughts together in a coherent fashion. He gave my writing the attention it needed. I finally was comfortable pouring my thoughts out for someone else to read and critique. I excelled in his class. It all came so naturally to me. He would leave comments on my papers that encouraged me to continue my writing pursuits.
For the first time, I understood the notes I had been scribbling to myself growing up, were a cry for help. I wondered how many other young people lived under similar circumstances. I hoped to one day speak for the voiceless in my writings.
In my senior year, writing was sidetracked. My guidance counselor instructed me to focus on choosing a college and a career. I was looking forward to a future in writing. But my counselor insisted I be more realistic. He told me making a living writing would be difficult. I should choose a career that paid decent money. This made sense to me. I wanted a pathway out of the poor and hurtful environment I grew up in. I made a decision. Writing would have to wait.
My counselor gave me a magazine featuring jobs in the healthcare industry of the future. It stated job prospects in pharmacy were particularly good. The article went on to state that someone with a pharmacy degree would always have a job. That piqued my interest. I had no idea what the work of a pharmacist involved. I recalled this man in my neighborhood drugstore behind the counter who wore a white coat and the customers respected and called him ‘doc.’ I never recalled seeing anyone behind the counter wearing a white jacket that looked like me. So I decided to embark on that career path. When I received my acceptance letter, I jumped with joy. It represented my ticket to a better life.
My goal was to become an excellent pharmacist. This required an enormous amount of reading and study. There was so much drug information to keep up with. When I put on that white coat, I was the drug information specialist. If I didn’t know the answer to a physician’s or nurse’s drug question, I was expected to quickly find it.
My normal work schedule was demanding. I had to get up at 3 am to catch a 5 am train from my home in New Jersey to Pennsylvania station in New York City. From there I boarded a subway train to my hospital pharmacy job in Brooklyn, New York.
During my pharmacy career, hospital closings were a common occurrence. With every change of employment, I came in as the least senior pharmacist. This meant I was frequently required to work mandatory overtime shifts. Pharmacy work required a lot of standing. Unfortunately, I was born with flat feet. So, every day was a painful experience. My daily work routine was either inspecting nursing units or verifying physician drug orders. Since I never took typing in school, keeping up with the large volume of physician orders was always a challenge.
I surrendered my life to pharmacy. Even on off days, I surrounded myself with pharmacy books and journals. I had no other interests. But even more regrettably, I was out of touch with writing. I was not happy. I had devoted too many years solely to pharmacy.
I needed confirmation that the writer in me was still alive. Then it happened. One morning on the 5:00 am train to work, I overheard a conversation. A passenger was explaining to someone about an experience that changed her life. She had a meeting with Singh Modhi, a world-renowned palm reader. Curious whether or not he could help me, I went on the internet and got his information. Three months later in his office in New York City, he read my sweaty palms. Then he whispered the words. “You are a writer.” Finally, the confirmation I sought. His words renewed my quest for a writing life. Emotionally, I was ready to get out of pharmacy. Unfortunately, that was still not financially possible.
Many years passed before I produced any tangible evidence I was a writer.
I co-authored with some writer friends the book titled GET THE BOOK OUT. I later wrote my first book titled A PRESCRIPTION FOR FINANCIAL HEALTH.
I reveled in my brief taste of writing success. But it would be ten years and two failed marriages later before I was joyfully living the writing life. Retirement unlocked the door for me. I was also blessed to find a loving partner.
I have taken writing courses and joined a supportive writing community. Good writing requires daily practice. My work includes various forms of writing e.g. personal essays, blog posts, short stories, and memoir writing.
Every day is a new beginning. I pour myself a cup of coffee and walk from my kitchen to my home office to write. It has been a long time coming. I am so blessed. I am on no one else’s schedule but my own. Comfortably seated in front of my computer, I anxiously await the arrival of a new idea. What will I give birth to today?
If the writing life is your goal, stick with it. No matter how long it takes, it will be worth the wait.
When I hear the whistle of the 5 am train pulling out the station without me, it brings a smile to my face. I gleefully look forward to another creative day in my writing life. Don’t you give up!
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