A couple weeks ago, my daughter and
I were having dinner, just the two of us. I asked her, “Elena, you know I wrote
this book for you, right?”
“Yeah . . . I know,” she said, her
voice tender, full of understanding.
Elena has witnessed my struggle
over the years, my heartache at the dozens of rejections from agents and
publishers, and my labor over countless rewrites. She has heard me cry that I
wanted to give up. She knows how hard I worked yet all this time, I never
shared the why.
After so many years—nearly ten—of writing
my novel, the thought that it will be released within as little as three months
is daunting: to come to end of the road of a long journey. Am I ready to switch
gears to promote it, a journey of a whole other kind, from creative to sales?
She saw my exuberant cheering when
it was accepted for publication. Watched me jump up and down with joy.
I wanted to write a beautiful book.
I wanted to share a story that is so inspirational and important to me to pass
on this story to others. I wanted to give a gift to my father for all his
patience, time and willingness to share the intimate details of his life with
me so honestly.
But mostly I wrote my father’s
story to share it with my daughter, so she may discover that rich and beautiful
part of her heritage.
And all this time, Elena has
understood the book project was in part for her. She also knows her mother is a
little bit loca.
Writing Prompt:
Describe an event when a child or any other young person in your life got you, understood you in a way that surprised you. Or: Write about your reasons for
accomplishing something for others.
