Somewhere, in one of the many boxes cluttering up my attic, lies a dusty original manuscript that I penned at the ripe age of nine entitled, Henry's Clubhouse. It is a sad attempt at imitating Beverly Cleary (my favorite childhood author), and the very first seed of a dream that one day I might could be a writer.
That dream remained dormant until a warm day in 1986 when I picked up a small magazine and, on a harebrained whim, entered a young writer's contest.
Imagine my shock when I won first place, and received a nice check for my efforts. I determined right then and there that, yes, I would—I could—be a writer.
So I wrote. I wrote on napkins at the breakfast table. I wrote on recipe cards while cooking dinner. I wrote during my baby's naps. I wrote when I should have been sleeping. I sent manuscripts to every conceivable magazine I could get my hands on. I was on fire, and the world would soon know it.
So much for that notion. All of my efforts were immediately rewarded with a deluge of rejection slips—those awful pre-printed letters that begin: "Dear Writer," and end by saying, thanks but no thanks. By year's end, I had enough rejection slips to wallpaper my office. A sane person would have taken the hint and surrendered.
But not me. Instead of growing to hate the word "rejection," it became my greatest motivator. I must be doing something wrong, and it was up to me to figure it out.
Ah, this was back in the days before computers (yes, those days actually existed and I actually experienced them), so I began making frequent trips to the neighborhood library—my little daughter in tow—where I would check out as many books as I could haul on the craft of writing, and what it took to be published in paying markets.
Night after night, I burned the midnight oil, trying to digest everything as quickly as possible. I wish I could say that within a couple of weeks—voila!—I had the formula for success figured out. That didn’t happen. But what did happen was the beginning of a journey—an uphill, laborious, frustrating, exasperating, and rewarding journey. A journey that has brought me a long way, and continues today. To read more about my journey, I invite you to visit my website.
In December of 2005, I received an email with the subject line, “a note of gratitude.” The email came from a man named Joe. Joe had read a short editorial I’d written four years earlier and wanted me to know how it affected his life. This is what Joe wrote to me, and I’ll never forget what a profound impact his words had on me:
Ms Shockley, you wrote a small article in The Dallas Morning News “FAITH COMFORTING IN TROUBLING TIMES” a short time after 9-11. I was so impressed with it I cut it out & placed it in my billfold. Two years ago my wife kicked me out because of my drinking. Later that night agonizing over the loss of my family I came across your article in my billfold. After reading it, a renewed hope began to build up in me. I knew God was going to see me thru. Today, my marriage has been restored and I belong to a Christian based 12 steps called "CELEBRATE RECOVERY." I shall forever be grateful for your article because I felt the Presence of God.
Writing for publication is not a journey for the faint of heart, but requires patience, flexibility, and, perhaps most of all, perseverance. Should you be contemplating signing up for this trip, it is my hope that you will succeed beyond your greatest expectations.
Ms Shockley, you wrote a small article in The Dallas Morning News “FAITH COMFORTING IN TROUBLING TIMES” a short time after 9-11. I was so impressed with it I cut it out & placed it in my billfold. Two years ago my wife kicked me out because of my drinking. Later that night agonizing over the loss of my family I came across your article in my billfold. After reading it, a renewed hope began to build up in me. I knew God was going to see me thru. Today, my marriage has been restored and I belong to a Christian based 12 steps called "CELEBRATE RECOVERY." I shall forever be grateful for your article because I felt the Presence of God.
Joe
When I read Joe’s email, I was overcome with emotion. To imagine this dear man carrying around my article in his wallet for years was humbling and inconceivable. I’m forever grateful that he took time to send me that email, because Joe made me realize, all over again, why I write—to encourage, to motivate, to offer a glimmer of hope when all seems lost, to maybe—just maybe—change somebody’s world.
Writing for publication is not a journey for the faint of heart, but requires patience, flexibility, and, perhaps most of all, perseverance. Should you be contemplating signing up for this trip, it is my hope that you will succeed beyond your greatest expectations.
Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might (Ecclesiastes 9:10).
Dayle
