I was twenty-one, a young, divorced mom with a baby and a typewriter. No money to speak of but big dreams. I was going to be a writer, a career that would allow me to say at home with son while enjoying fame and fortune. Ha! Little did I know what I was in for. Years of hard work for no pay, rejection slips galore, and little or no encouragement from family members who wondered aloud, “When the hell is she going to get a REAL job?” But I kept at it. I’m stubborn that way. Damn it, I was going be a success and prove all the naysayers wrong! I wrote whenever I had a moment between mom duties, sending submissions and queries to what seemed like every publication listed in “The Writer’s Market.” And each day I would open my mailbox to the flood of form rejection letters and thanks-but-no-thanks responses that poured out. Back then I had a pervy mailman who’d toot his horn just to see me come running–me in the hope of a slim white envelope containing an acceptance letter, him in the hope of seeing me in my bikini top (when he thought I might be in the backyard gardening). I felt so frustrated and beaten-down I often wondered, “What’s the point?”
Then – ta da! – it happened. I opened my mailbox one day to a slim white envelope containing a check for $20. It was from the “National Star” for an article I’d written on how to save on gas by driving as though there were an invisible egg between your foot and the gas pedal. It had the catchy title “An Egg in Your Car Will Save You Money.” I felt like I’d won the jackpot in a hundred-million dollar lottery. No check I’ve received since was as thrilling. This confirmed it: I was a writer, not just another wannabe. This was my ticket of admission to the hallowed realm to which I aspired. It made up for all the months and months of hard work and rejection. I was on my way. Still dirt-poor but golden.
And the $20? I was tempted to frame the check, but needed the money for groceries so I framed a Xerox of it instead.
