Dear fourteen-year-old-me
Dear fourteen-year-old me,
Hello from the future! Back when you wrote what I'm currently reading, the internet didn't exist (as we know it, at least, and the word 'internet' wasn't even in your vocabulary), you had a manual typewriter, and you had just spent the entire year's worth of Math classes writing instead of doing your homework. I'm not going to say anything about the latter, because I've turned out okay, for the most part. And anyway, if I told you what will happen, you might change something, and then I won't be sitting here like I am now and I will never have written this letter to you.
I'm writing to tell you I found Tales from Cairbre the other day. The whole thing. It will end up being around a thousand handwritten pages--notebook after notebook after notebook. There are notes in the margin (French Homework!!! Bring garbage bag for Pottery!!!) and phone numbers I don't recognize. You seem to be fond of quotes, as well, especially this one: 'If practice is perfect, but nothing is perfect, then why practice?'
You started writing this epic in August of 1989. You were fourteen years old. This was your fourth novel. You'd written the other three over the course of a year and a half. Fourteen-year-old me, you certainly never did anything half-assed that you were interested in. (Now, math homework is different, I know that.) I admire your dedication to your story. You label each day's worth of writing with the date, so I know that you wrote nearly every day, including holidays. And especially on your birthday. Your handwriting changes a bit over the course of a year. You even tried to write with your left hand--one whole page. Impressive.
What isn't impressive is the story you wrote, fourteen-year-old me. But even though the story is pretty laughably terrible, I have to remember that fourteen-year-old-me hadn't picked up a single how-to-write book (that comes later, and it's not a great idea, just a hint.) Fourteen-year-old-me decided that since she'd read nearly all the interesting books in the library, she probably knew how to write a story anyway. And even more important, since fourteen-year-old-me grew up listening to the stories Dad told us at night, and also grew up telling stories of her own, she was pretty much immersed in story from Day #1.
Fourteen-year-old-me, you did a good job. You stuck with it, even when no one stuck with you. You were true to your dream of being a writer. You wrote. You didn't just talk about it, you didn't allow yourself to be seen with the right manuals; the right how-to books. You wrote. Your notebook was an extension of your body. You never let it out of your sight. (Oh, by the way, fourteen-year-old-me, when Mr. Ginn takes your notebook away in Geometry class, don't worry. He'll give it back. But it's not a good idea to write in his class. Just another hint.) Sometimes you even slept with it.
And you know what, fourteen-year-old-me? If you hadn't stuck with it, I wouldn't be a writer still today. I wouldn't have nineteen books published, and counting. I never would have met the Wild Hunt. I never would have guessed there was a school of magic hidden inside of a State Park. I never would have met the Healers, or Lucas, or Jacob, or Josiah--or Malachi. (God forbid!)
If you hadn't kept writing; if you hadn't stayed true to your dream, then I would not be sitting here right now, typing this.
So, fourteen-year-old-me, I'm glad you didn't try to publish Tales from Cairbre. It's rather horrible. You "borrowed" a lot from your favorite books. Your characters get hurt and/or killed every three pages or so. And you have a serious laundry list of characters. But you learned something while writing this, fourteen-year-old-me. You learned that the story is the most important piece. Not letters behind your name; not whose class you've taken; not whether or not you've traveled to distant lands, but whether or not you were true to your story. And you were.
And you couldn't have learned that any other way.
That lesson has served me well over the years. If you hadn't kept writing, I'm not sure what I would have become. While your farthest imagining of what you saw as a murky future was that you'd end up working at the library and moonlighting as a writer, because you knew (already, without being told) that surviving on a writer's salary wasn't exactly an easy thing to do, your life here in the future is not that far off the mark. You're not currently working at the library, but that might change. (Hopefully, it will.)
You have a house, fourteen-year-old-me. And a garden. And cats (indoors!) And you are surrounded by books. And all of this would not be here if you hadn't written that first sentence of your fourth book:
Many years ago, there was a war between the lands of Cairbre.
Fourteen-year-old-me, you rock.
Love,
Thirty-seven-year-old-me, from the future.
Hello from the future! Back when you wrote what I'm currently reading, the internet didn't exist (as we know it, at least, and the word 'internet' wasn't even in your vocabulary), you had a manual typewriter, and you had just spent the entire year's worth of Math classes writing instead of doing your homework. I'm not going to say anything about the latter, because I've turned out okay, for the most part. And anyway, if I told you what will happen, you might change something, and then I won't be sitting here like I am now and I will never have written this letter to you.
I'm writing to tell you I found Tales from Cairbre the other day. The whole thing. It will end up being around a thousand handwritten pages--notebook after notebook after notebook. There are notes in the margin (French Homework!!! Bring garbage bag for Pottery!!!) and phone numbers I don't recognize. You seem to be fond of quotes, as well, especially this one: 'If practice is perfect, but nothing is perfect, then why practice?'
You started writing this epic in August of 1989. You were fourteen years old. This was your fourth novel. You'd written the other three over the course of a year and a half. Fourteen-year-old me, you certainly never did anything half-assed that you were interested in. (Now, math homework is different, I know that.) I admire your dedication to your story. You label each day's worth of writing with the date, so I know that you wrote nearly every day, including holidays. And especially on your birthday. Your handwriting changes a bit over the course of a year. You even tried to write with your left hand--one whole page. Impressive.
What isn't impressive is the story you wrote, fourteen-year-old me. But even though the story is pretty laughably terrible, I have to remember that fourteen-year-old-me hadn't picked up a single how-to-write book (that comes later, and it's not a great idea, just a hint.) Fourteen-year-old-me decided that since she'd read nearly all the interesting books in the library, she probably knew how to write a story anyway. And even more important, since fourteen-year-old-me grew up listening to the stories Dad told us at night, and also grew up telling stories of her own, she was pretty much immersed in story from Day #1.
Fourteen-year-old-me, you did a good job. You stuck with it, even when no one stuck with you. You were true to your dream of being a writer. You wrote. You didn't just talk about it, you didn't allow yourself to be seen with the right manuals; the right how-to books. You wrote. Your notebook was an extension of your body. You never let it out of your sight. (Oh, by the way, fourteen-year-old-me, when Mr. Ginn takes your notebook away in Geometry class, don't worry. He'll give it back. But it's not a good idea to write in his class. Just another hint.) Sometimes you even slept with it.
And you know what, fourteen-year-old-me? If you hadn't stuck with it, I wouldn't be a writer still today. I wouldn't have nineteen books published, and counting. I never would have met the Wild Hunt. I never would have guessed there was a school of magic hidden inside of a State Park. I never would have met the Healers, or Lucas, or Jacob, or Josiah--or Malachi. (God forbid!)
If you hadn't kept writing; if you hadn't stayed true to your dream, then I would not be sitting here right now, typing this.
So, fourteen-year-old-me, I'm glad you didn't try to publish Tales from Cairbre. It's rather horrible. You "borrowed" a lot from your favorite books. Your characters get hurt and/or killed every three pages or so. And you have a serious laundry list of characters. But you learned something while writing this, fourteen-year-old-me. You learned that the story is the most important piece. Not letters behind your name; not whose class you've taken; not whether or not you've traveled to distant lands, but whether or not you were true to your story. And you were.
And you couldn't have learned that any other way.
That lesson has served me well over the years. If you hadn't kept writing, I'm not sure what I would have become. While your farthest imagining of what you saw as a murky future was that you'd end up working at the library and moonlighting as a writer, because you knew (already, without being told) that surviving on a writer's salary wasn't exactly an easy thing to do, your life here in the future is not that far off the mark. You're not currently working at the library, but that might change. (Hopefully, it will.)
You have a house, fourteen-year-old-me. And a garden. And cats (indoors!) And you are surrounded by books. And all of this would not be here if you hadn't written that first sentence of your fourth book:
Many years ago, there was a war between the lands of Cairbre.
Fourteen-year-old-me, you rock.
Love,
Thirty-seven-year-old-me, from the future.
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