The Author to Her Book

I can still see it - this large yellow notebook with wide ruled paper and "PRIVATE" written in huge letters across the front.  Inside, the scratchy handwriting of a sixth-grader on every other line and certain spots worn down from erasers.  It was my masterpiece.  My very first novel.  However, it never got past four pages because the "friends" in my story changed as dramatically as a girl's friends will in middle school.  I never got past who the main character's "bff's" would be.

The dream of writing a novel didn't die with the yellow notebook, however.  For many years, I wanted to write a book of poetry about my life - the title of the book was going to be "Nutshell."  It was going to have a blue cover with only a broken peanut shell and the title on the front.  Then, several years ago, when I was spending quite a bit of time in airports, traveling to see Jesse as he followed internships and jobs across the country, my brainchild was a book of poetry about my experiences in airports.  The titles of each poem would be the specific airport.  I thought about the marketing available for that one and so, while waiting for flights, I wrote poetry about the people around me.

Last but not least, my dream of being a published author transformed genres yet again - my most recent dream was to write a book called "After the 3:00 Bell" in which I shared stories about my students whose home lives are far from ideal.  The purpose of the book would be to remind teachers to consider the "baggage" students bring with them every day to their classroom.

Obviously, none of these publication dreams have come to fruition.  The closest I've gotten to being published is, well, blogs.  And my college newspaper.  But I realized something today. 

I am about to write my greatest masterpiece.  Emerson.

Anne Bradstreet has a famous poem entitled "Author to Her Book" - the entire poem is a metaphor.  It sounds like a poem about a mother talking to her new child, when in reality, it is Bradstreet's opinion about her book... which, to her, was the "offspring of (her) feeble brain."

I think that metaphor works both ways.  At this stage in my life, I may never write a book that is read by someone other than me and my immediate family.  However, I have written something greater.

I'm confident my first book will inspire others, will be creative, (and will spend lots of times in book stores!).  I will constantly revise my first book, trying to do the absolute best I can do - revising it over and over as Whitman revised Leaves of Grass until his deathbed edition.  And the best part?  I cowrote this book with my husband, a man whose writing talents never fail to impress me.  And our writing styles are so different - he is terse, matter-of-fact, and witty.  I am emotional, elaborate, and metaphorical.  But I can see our first book together being a beautiful blend of our talents and our strengths. 

In a matter of days ... or I guess, even hours ... I will get to meet my first real work of art.  And a lifetime goal will be met beyond my own expectations.