And you ask, “What if I fall?” Oh, but my darling, what if you fly?
~Erin Hanson

In second grade, while other kids played outside at recess, I stayed behind at my desk and created books from construction paper. Using the limited vocabulary of an eight-year-old, I wrote stories and dreamed of one day becoming an author. My second-grade teacher urged my parents to nurture this desire, but they didn’t take my juvenile aspiration seriously.

Through adulthood, the desire to write remained. The dream never died but there were more certain ways to generate income, so I was steered in different directions. None of the jobs I held afforded me the opportunity to write, and raising two daughters gave me little free time to pursue becoming an author. However, I held onto the dream that had flickered in me as a child. I co-authored a local history book and wrote some of the curriculum for our elementary school’s puppet ministry, but I wanted to know my work was good enough that someone would pay for it. It wasn’t about the monetary compensation; it was more about the emotional reward it would bring if someone said, “Your story is good enough for us to pay you to allow us to publish it.”

At the age of fifty-eight, after working as a Realtor for several years, I escrowed my real-estate license. I continued to manage the office of my husband’s construction company, but I was looking for something that would fill the void of our now empty nest. I wanted a job that wasn’t stressful and didn’t require a lot of time. Writing stories and sharing them on social media filled some of that void, and the stories garnered quite a few likes, but it never crossed my mind as I approached my senior years that writing could be a career for me.

The January after escrowing my license, I posted on social media that I was looking for part-time work. I told my Internet friends that I was searching for something relaxing, such as driving a school van, babysitting, or working retail. My solicitation for suggestions didn’t generate much feedback.

Shortly after my failed work-wanted post, a friend from high school passed away. Entering the funeral home for her visitation, I immediately spotted another individual from school who was also my friend on social media. We hadn’t seen each other in several years, so I walked over to greet her. Anticipating that her first words would consist of how long it had been since we’d seen each other, I was shocked at what she blurted out. “You don’t want to drive a school van, or babysit, or work in a store; you want to write. You need to write.”

She had been reading the stories I shared on social media and had always commented with encouraging words. But no one had ever spoken these words to me. I had never even spoken these words out loud to myself. Hearing someone verbally solidify my desire to write was foreign to me, but those simple words she uttered kindled a flame that had only been a flicker for a long time.

Thinking about our recently departed classmate, I wondered how many of her dreams were left unfulfilled when she departed this Earth. Deep inside, I knew I still wanted to be an author. I wanted to follow my friend’s advice. I wanted to write. I needed to write.

I went home that day and composed a story about an event that was very special to me. After editing my words for what seemed like a million times, I got the courage to submit it to a magazine I had subscribed to for years. I even got brave enough to write several stories and send them to other publications.

Sadly, a year passed, and I didn’t hear anything back. I was convinced my dream would never be fulfilled, and I was foolish to think otherwise.

Then it happened! There in my e-mail inbox was an offer from the magazine I had sent my first story to. I couldn’t believe it! Finally, there was a contract for my review, and someone was willing to pay me for the use of my story. Imagine my excitement when, a couple of days later, another offer arrived by e-mail from a major book company! I truly felt as giddy as an eight-year-old girl by the end of the week.

Since that time, I have had the honor and privilege of being featured in several publications. My hometown newspaper even shared the story of my path to becoming an author in a front-page feature last year, and my desire to write has grown even stronger now that I’ve seen my words in print.

It’s hard to believe that a few simple words of advice and encouragement on an otherwise sorrowful day would lead me to achieving what I’d longed for since I was a kid. I am now comfortable referring to myself as an author. While I wish someone would have given me advice to pursue my dream many years ago, I’m thankful I won’t leave this Earth with that dream locked deep inside me — a dream that started long ago in an elementary-school classroom with some construction paper and a yellow pencil.

— Tamara Bell —