I crochet. I embroider. I write. Not necessarily in that order. Tapping my creative juices is a bit like breathing to me. If I don’t do it, I don't feel well.
Watching my grandmother crochet or embroider fascinated me. When she offered to teach me, I jumped at the chance. Grandma handed me money and strict instructions not to talk to strangers, then sent me off to Murphy’s 5 & 10 in her small town to pick out an embroidery sampler and floss. I was 8 years old. I loved picking the colors of floss that would make the flat, plain cloth come alive.
Years later, that experience became the essay “French Knots” in my memoir SEVEN THIN DIMES.
My parents were voracious readers. The apple doesn’t fall far from that tree. My nose was always in a book. My mother often pushed me to go outside and play with other kids. In our family, the tally is: readers - a lot; painters & carpenters - a few; writers - none. Just me. By the fourth grade, I was reading on an eleventh grade level, dreaming sentences and rhyming words at night or daydreaming them during the day. My parents were supportive, but Erie, PA, in the 1960’s was void of outlets to explore creative writing. I had no idea why I had such a desire to put words together or that a girl like me could grow up to be a writer one day.
Fourth grade and Mrs. Whitmore changed my life. She was like a light in the dark. She was the first, only, and last teacher who complemented me and made me feel good about my writing. So, I wrote her a poem. Mind you, I’m not even sure I understood back then that what I did was called a poem. Mrs. Whitmore told my parents I had talent. Suddenly, I saw myself in an entirely new light. She allowed me to step out of the class, while the other students were reading books at a level I’d already surpassed, and explore SRA reading assignments, write plays, and put them on, later, for the class. But where to go and what to do in a city with no options?
Ninth grade brought the excitement of a newly offered creative writing class. By mid-term all joy at finally having a chance to learn to write had deflated into misery. The teacher was not a writer, nor did he appear to know much about the craft of writing. Following my submission of an assignment, he accused me of plagiarism. Ordered to sit alone in a room while he observed, I was given a subject and told to write at the same level and in the same style as my homework submission. To add to his draconian behavior, he gave me a time limit to complete it. Imagine doing that to a terrified 15-year-old. I should have told my parents, but I thought I was “in trouble” and kept quiet. He gave me an A+ for the class but never once offered kind words or additional help.
From teachers to high school counselors, no one seemed to be able to tell me how to be a writer and also earn a living. After a couple false starts in college, I chose journalism and stuck with it. Throughout my years working low paying jobs in various fields, I wrote poetry and essays, submitted them and was rejected. I often thought I’d create wallpaper from the rejection letters - now they’d be a screensaver for my laptop! Floundering, lost with no mentor or path to take, often working two jobs, I alternately wrote and gave up on writing. But I never stopped crocheting and embroidering.
I embroidered quilts for each of my nephews when they were born, creating a family tradition I continue for my great-nephews and great-nieces. I crochet “lapghans” and afghans for people who do kind things for me, or as a donation to a craft table at the church fundraiser. Efforts to financially afford to enroll full time in an MFA program, or to pursue the degree part-time around my job, failed. Approval for flexible work hours wasn’t available, nor were online degrees plentiful, like they are today. I wanted, desperately, to learn and grow and, most of all, to validate that I was born to write…that I did have talent.
Well, now that you’ve followed me through this sad tale, you must be wondering why didn’t I quit my job and go to graduate school for a writing degree? Or maybe you’re so slogged down in this story you think if I don’t get to the point where I turned a corner, you’ll give up.
Turning that corner starts like another sad tale, but with a happy ending. Post heart-attack, my father had loads of health issues. I didn’t feel I could leave Erie. Then I was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in 1998 and faced a tough road through strenuous chemo treatments. Yet, after every big storm there's a rainbow somewhere if you look hard enough. The advice from a cancer survivor was “write 3 things you’ll do when, not if, you beat the disease”. Top of my list was to write and publish a novel. A refrigerator magnet held that list in front of my face each morning.
Twenty-six years later, I’m an author and cancer survivor who always has a crochet or embroidery project in progress! My early novels won small local awards, giving me courage to keep going. My recent novel, WHAT LIES WE KEEP, has won five awards. Publishing under my own label, Porch Swing Publishing, LLC, I’m carving a niche brand using cybersecurity in contemporary fiction to create additional suspense - a technothriller that’s not science fiction! And I put out a monthly newsletter - One Writer’s World - to reach out to readers.
Mrs. Whitmore was right all those years ago. I do have talent. I am a writer.
NOTE: Visit Janet’s website to learn more:
