Today I went through some boxes of miscellaneous items I had assumed was simply junk to throw away. But what I found was poetry I'd written through the years. Some were penned when I was in high school, and the rest later on after we began moving around. Stuff written when we moved to Cedar Rapids, IA, more poems I'd written in Omaha, NE, then Sioux City IA and Kalamazoo, MI. Lots and lots of fairly decent poetry, some I'd forgotten through the years. Some I'd submitted to magazines and newspapers, some actually accepted for publication in poetry journals, and also several one- & two-act plays I'd submitted to local playhouses (and letters from the directors).
I probably inherited this special talent from my dad's side of the family--my aunts on that side were poets and artists who painted with oils, whereas, I had never experimented with oils, but instead chose pencil, charcoal, oil pastels and watercolors.So today I read through all those old poems and ended up wondering what would happen to them after I'm gone. I suspect they'll be dumped, because if nobody complimented me on all that work while I was alive, why would anyone suddenly care when I'm no longer here to enjoy a few words of praise for writing such a mountain of work . . . and that doesn't even include the enormous amount of research I did for several novels. I did not leave any stone unturned to find the information I needed to write a Great Depression historical novel and three Arctic novels (two for children, and one historical novel for young adults/grownups).
So I'm sitting here thinking, "What the hell? All that important work for nothing?" I even created my own cover art for most of those books, plus formatted, edited, and proofread them, then published all but one myself. (The first one was traditionally published.)
It's sad to think some of my family will just not give a shit how hard I worked and how much I taught myself about writing and publishing.
My dad would've been proud of me. His sisters (my aunts) would've been proud of me. And I'm proud of myself for what I accomplished. My paternal grandmother had been an artist whose comic strips were published in her local newspaper. I was delighted to discover a couple of those in a box of photos and other items I inherited from my ancestors.
Well, that's enough whining. People will do whatever they want. But I hope they'll know those words were written from my heart.
Have a great year, folks!
Namaste!
