Books by Jackie
I was a young girl when I first started to write, but the stops and starts have taken their toll. It’s not that I don’t have some fair publishing credits. I’m just not the kind of writer I wanted to be. You know, the bestseller kind. What really galls me is the fact that the book store in my hometown has never carried my stuff. (Never mind the unstable psyche that thinks only those who knew me then can validate my life a success now.)
A few years ago, a significant age landmark was approaching , and I was sick with a serious bout of flu and bronchitis. I lay in bed that night, thinking I had spent my life helping others fulfill their dreams, hoping that one day it would be my turn. I am a professional in other areas, why not in writing? Suddenly, I knew clearly that if I didn't do something drastic, I would never finish what I really set out to do—be a serious writer. Horrified that I was stuck within shouting distance of my dream, I took the plunge. I had rarely spent a night alone, yet I proposed to my husband over coffee the next morning that I pack up everything and move to the lake. “I don’t need to quit my day job,” I said, referring to the office work I did for our small company. “I’ll become a telecommuter.” I redesigned my life as I talked: “I can set up a satellite office and send my work on the computer back to the office by modem.” He looked at me as if I’d announced I was going to don black leather and ride a Harley to the north shores of Newfoundland. He knows I am terrified of the dark woods, snakes, and things that screech in the night. I tend to have nightmares about chain saw murderers roaming the East Texas woods. Why did I want to deliberately isolate myself from Computer City and live where there is a tiny library, no Total Fitness, and no pizza delivery? Where a night on the town means eating at Catfish King? Where social events revolve around high school football games, the Pine Cone Festival, and the Crappiethon in Onalaska? I wanted to either purge myself of a lifetime of writing urges or quit and be done with it. I sought closure, something psychologists say the human mind naturally pursues. I decided to spend the next twelve moons on an internal trip, starting with the reasons I began to write in the first place, without any prejudice as to whether or not I will continue. It is not a journey to save the world, but to save myself. Serious as this sounds, I also hope to have a little fun along the way and make up for the sobriety of my youth. Last revised: January 2, 2017 |