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The first time I remember writing a story, I was eight or nine. My parents had purchased a typewriter at a tag sale, and I spent many afternoons painstakingly typing out a tale of spending a year living at my best friend’s house. The only way to make such a scenario plausible, I reasoned, was to have my parents die tragically on the first page of this story. (God, I hope they never found it!) I’m not sure I ever showed it to anyone, but I do remember there was something magical about creating it. With childlike resolve, I decided that when I grew up, I was going to write a book.
Then, in fifth grade, I was desperate for cash. You see, the year before, my favorite adult cousin from Poland, Irena, had visited us on a tourist visa and stayed for six months. I loved having her at our house. She took me out for ice cream and to the movies, indulged me when I wanted to give her formal English lessons (complete with homework), complimented (and ate!) my culinary experiments, and was a willing partner in my beloved hide-and-seek marathons.
Irena and me, Lipusz, 1990
But the best thing my cousin did for me? She believed in my dream. You know how children can tell the difference between an adult patronizing them and one who takes them seriously? I don’t remember Irena’s exact words when I told her that someday, I was going to write a book, but I vividly recall how her reaction made me feel - completely validated.
Needless to say, I was pretty bummed when she left. Somehow, I got it in my head that if I saved up enough money, I could buy Irena an airline ticket and she’d come back. Once, I spent the better part of some uncle’s birthday or imieniny party trying to figure out how to do this. While my parents sat around the table with the other adults - eating bigos and vegetable salad and periodically exclaiming, “Na zdrowie!” - and while my cousins were upstairs playing Super Mario, I paced the driveway in the dark, concocting wild schemes for how to make money. I’d organize a bake sale or a car wash, I thought, or maybe even help my parents at their office-cleaning job in the evenings. I tried to calculate how long it would take to save up enough money for a plane ticket this way, and quickly became discouraged.
But then, it came to me. Why wait until adulthood to try my hand at publishing? I could write a book now! Well, maybe not a whole book, but at the very least a collection of stories. What publisher wouldn’t be amazed by the wit and intelligence of a ten-year-old girl? (I did always have a tendency to dream big.)
So I got to work.
My stories began with lines such as this gem: “It all started on a sunny July day at 11:00 o’clock. I was going to this place called ‘Boats’ to rent a boat.” (Where’s the ROFL emoji when you really need it?!)
But then, inevitably, life got in the way. You know - freaking out with my friends about having to learn square dancing for gym (holding hands with boys - ewww!), long afternoons of practicing our dance to TLC’s “What About Your Friends” for the annual talent show or our skits for D.A.R.E. graduation - all these very important matters took me away from my story collection.
Over the years, I made a few more attempts at writing the book that I knew I was destined to write. In sixth grade I got my first desktop computer, and when I wasn’t immersed in the world of the best computer game ever - King’s Quest 6 - I spent my time typing up my diary entries. Certainly, the struggles of navigating elementary school would be interesting enough for a novel, I thought. I even split up the entries into chapters, complete with titles such as, “All’s Fair in Love and War.” (Go ahead, feel free to pause here for another hearty laugh - I know I just did!)
In high school I tried my hand at poetry and some angsty teenage drama (thirty pages handwritten during study hall). But then, sophomore year, a few months before going on a school trip to Spain, I finally had what I considered to be an absolutely brilliant idea: a book based on my experiences of spending each summer in Poland - except my main character would be an immigrant from Spain. You know, just to mix things up a little. I figured that while on the school trip, I would take tons of notes and rolls of pictures, which made me feel that this particular book idea, indeed, was THE ONE. I mean, I was going to do research and everything, like a real writer.
Predictably, nothing ever came of that book, either.
But no matter how many ideas sprouted up inside my mind, only to wither a short time later, the thought of a book itself was always within me, like an unborn child. Sometimes, I’d start thinking about it at the most random times. In a bus while on vacation in California my sophomore year of college. Driving home from teaching third grade. I’m sure there were more but those two times I actually recall very clearly.
Why didn’t I pursue writing professionally earlier? Well, much like in fifth grade, life happened. In college I studied elementary education because that was my other greatest passion. I did enter a writing contest my junior year, prodded by my English professor, and actually ended up winning first place. Guess what I wrote about? You got it - immigration. And of course I wrote a ton of papers for other classes (all of them safely tucked away in a giant binder now), but beyond that, I just didn’t have much energy left for anything creative. Then came marriage, a professional job, motherhood. I always figured that I’d know when the time was right.
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That time came about seven years ago. The idea of my book had risen to the surface of my mind yet again, and it was all I could think about. I bought a desk for twenty bucks off of Craigslist and, every day, when my one-year-old son went down for his afternoon nap, I sat down to write - this time (inspired by having recently read The Hunger Games) a sci-fi fantasy.
It was like magic. The words flowed and I was able to write at least two pages a day, sometimes more. The story was taking shape. Buoyed by my progress, I started believing that this was finally THE ONE. I even experienced one of those phenomena I’d heard other writers describe - a character speaking to me, or maybe more precisely, feeling like my character had told me his line rather than me thinking it up on my own. “This is bullshit,” the character said. (Now I realize he was probably talking about the entire premise of the story he was in!)
For five years, on and off I worked on this book, and I think I got as far as around 40,000 words. But something about it just wasn’t working. It, too, fizzled.
Which brings us to now. So here I am - writing a memoir about immigrating to the United States and trying to find my place here. A few months ago, when one of my best friends was filming a short promotional video for my book, she asked me - in an effort to get me comfortable in front of her camera - “Why this story? Why now?”
It was about two years ago when the idea made itself known to me. Because that’s what it felt like - not like I thought of it myself, but like the idea tapped me on the shoulder and exclaimed, “I’m here! You must write about me!” It honestly felt like a sudden compulsion. Or maybe the story had been there all along, but only now was I giving myself permission to write it.
In any case, this is REALLY the one.
You may be smiling right about now and thinking that it won’t be long before I repeat my pattern, right? And maybe soon I’ll be posting a blog entry about why this actually WASN’T the one but hold on, because I’ve got something even better in mind, right?
Not this time, oh no. Definitely not this time.
And how can I be sure, you ask?
Photo credit: ID 77020319 © Fly | Dreamstime.com
Well, my dear Reader - I’m certain this is the one precisely because you’re here, reading this. Because I have this blog and this website, because I’ve been making connections with other writers and feeling so, so inspired by this new journey into the writing life. This time - despite my inner critic whose loud voice sometimes makes me question whether this will be good enough, whether people will even care - I’m making it happen.
And who knows? Maybe this will even be the start of something new. Maybe I won’t stop at my immigration memoir. In fact, I know that I won’t. Now that the floodgates have opened, there are so many more stories I want to write - perhaps a novel set in Communist Poland, or a collection of stories about what it means to be a Polish immigrant in America; maybe a children’s series about Polish heroines and heroes. The sky is the limit! Maybe I’ll end up writing a dozen books or even more.