I remember reading the story of the little train again and again as a kid. I remember thinking how it was basic and simplistic and wondering how such a simple story could impact anyone. I read the same story to each of my children, with them on my lap as I made chugging and choo choo sounds.
I've done life the hard way, more often than I'd like to admit. Everyone would say, "choose easy". My comeback was always "That's great advice. If only I had a way of knowing exactly what pathway or choice "easy" is."
I took jobs that underpaid me, believing that I didn't have the "right" qualifications or the "value" necessary. Then I went home to my children each night and told them cheerfully that they could accomplish or do anything they set their hearts to do. I told them that they had value and that they were valuable beyond belief. Hypocrisy, at it's finest. I told myself that it was because I hadn't been naturally born into value but that I would give my kids a better start or rather a better life, even if it killed me. Then I'd get up the next day and go back to my underpaid, underappreciated job.
I told myself that I had to work harder, longer, put in more hours in order to have success. I'd always dreamed of being a writer but that opportunity wasn't available to someone like me. I was a mere woman who'd been raised in a over-crowded trailer house in the countryside of Idaho and as such had to pay a higher price for value and success. I couldn't afford an education, and even if I could have figured out a way to go on scholarships, I'd been homeschooled using old books my mother convinced the local school to donate since birth, and couldn't fathom how to get my foot in the door of a real education.
I was born into servitude as a birthing cow to the men of our religion. I bowed my head and bore children which gave me some sense of value and I loved being a mom. It was something I'd always wanted to do even though I sometimes felt like I should rebel at the notion on the general basis that it was something also demanded of me. But as I held each of my children, old desires would awaken. Me telling them that they had all the potential in the world, served as a reminder to myself of dreams that I'd once had, that had long gone unfulfilled.
I pulled my head out of my ass and got my GED at twenty five. It gave me a new-found feeling of success. I studied hard, and when I sat staring at my scores afterward, I was stunned. Here, I had been telling myself that I was stupid and unintelligent and yet I'd rated in the top 90th percentile on everything except math which I rated somewhere in the 65th percentile. Even in my most challenging subject, I'd done better than fifty percent of the population. I found a new found hope for my own future and applied for financial aid and gained admittance into Idaho State University.
I signed up as a business major but I found myself taking as many writing classes as I could fit in with my other general ed classes. I thrived in university. I loved taking classes. Even history, which I'd always previously hated. I soaked up every bit of information I could and even managed to pull a high GPA. I was invited to join several honors programs my second year, but by that time things had fallen apart at home again and I needed to put a hold on my education.
I took a break, telling myself that I'd go back as soon as things calmed down on the home front. Then one semester off turned into two and then continued until three years had passed. By then I'd realized that the thing I'd liked most about school was all of the English and writing classes I'd taken. At this time I believed that I couldn't really be a writer unless or until I got my degree from an accredited university, but each year that went by seemed to make that likelihood less and less real.
I gave up on the idea of ever being an author and took a job working for a cabinet company. The pay was better than any other job I'd had and it came with full benefits for my family which made a huge difference when it came to the medical and dental bills for my three boys. I tried to write on the side, but I had no energy left after long days of sanding wood and hard physical work.
I quit my job after two years, determined to take a shot at writing a book. I failed miserably. I couldn't focus on the words because I was too busy feeling guilty about quitting my and creating potential hardship for my family. Again, I fell back into that age old hole. I was born into a world that was not intended for my success. I took refuge in giving my children the best possible chance of success themselves and went back to work.
I worked my ass off. I always have, so that's nothing new. My boss at the cabinet shop had some idea of my value even though I hadn't seen it yet. He gave me many raises and bonuses, It got me to thinking about the past jobs I'd had. In each case when I'd finally moved on from them, the people I worked for were upset and disappointed in me. I'd always seen it as proof that I wasn't worthy of more, but at that time, I remembered them complaining about how hard it was going to be for them to find good help again. I'd felt guilty and thought it was my fault that they were struggling. Now, I could see it differently. I could see how hard I'd always worked to give everyone the best possible value even when all I had to give was me.
That realization changed me. I realized that as a hard worker who wasn't afraid to get my hands dirty and do the hard jobs I had actually made people want to keep me around, which made me wonder what would happen if I was to give myself permission to give that same level of focus to my own success and writing. Building cabinets was great for a while but long term felt like it was killing my creativity one hour at a time, until I found myself staring at the clock, day after day, waiting for the moment I could leave.
I made one of the scariest decisions I'd ever made and decided to gamble on myself. I quit my great paying job with security and benefits and moved across the country to a place that felt like it inspired me. Then I pulled out my laptop and began writing. Three months later, I came up for air, staring at the completion of my first full manuscript. 190,000 words stared back at me from the screen. I was once again stunned.
Then the old doubts sank in again. Okay, I had a manuscript but that didn't mean I could actually get anyone to publish it. I had no contacts in that world, had no real idea of how it worked other than that someone wrote the books that I purchased from the bookstore. I thought about giving up again, but then remembered when I'd thought I couldn't go to college, because I didn't know how to get started. I hit the research, promising myself that I would give as much to my own dream as I'd always given to others when I worked for them.
Three months later I had not only signed a publishing contract for The Homecoming, but I'd also finished my second manuscript. Each time I hit the summit of the mountain I was climbing, I'd see another peak that I hadn't see until I came up over the top and I'd think, there's no way I can climb that one. But each time I reminded myself that I felt the exact same way when I started the one I'd just finished, and each time, I'd made it.
I don't know if I'll ever quite reach the top but I haven't stopped yet. My feeling now is that I've done all the work necessary and that now when I reach the highest point, it's going to be the rush of a downward spiral as I soar into the success that is only possible because I believed in myself.
This morning I woke up thinking about that train, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, chanting inside my head. Excitement soared at the end, as I fully embraced and accepted that I am an author. I've already done the thing that I thought I could never do before. How hard could the next mountain be?
I'm left with the overwhelming nostalgia of realization that for me, the biggest half of success is accepting it once I've achieved it. I am already an author. I don't have to wait until I've published five more books or made New York Times bestseller lists to breathe it in. I am an author and those other things are just one more peak that I'll continue to climb on my journey.
A.R.O'Brien
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