The Composition Book

When I was about ten years old, I had a composition book. In it, I wrote a few chapters of a story about a girl who moved to Ireland and met a boy named Marty who was from another time period. It was kind of a time-traveling fantasy story. I thought it was rubbish, however, and threw it in the recycling bin in the hopes that no one would ever discover my garbage writing.

This was a time when I was living with my grandmother. My parents worked full-time and she lived alone and had reoccurring strokes, so I was sent to her house to help keep her company and keep an eye on her. That’s another story.

Years later, after my grandmother had passed away, I found the composition book among her belongings. I was astounded. I had thrown that book out years ago. How in the world did it end up here?

And then it hit me. My grandmother had rescued my composition book from its doomed fate. She never told me when she was alive that she had done that. Maybe she was afraid I’d get embarrassed and throw the book out again, which I probably would have.

That one act made me realize one thing: never underestimate yourself. As human beings, we constantly underestimate ourselves. Being an author is no different. If anything, we are more vulnerable. We pour out our mind and soul into a book and slap our name on it. And people read it and whether or not they like it, we automatically have to claim responsibility for what we produce. Unless we have a pen name, we don’t have anything or anyone to hide behind. That’s a scary feeling. But our work, no matter what we do, is appreciated out there by someone, somewhere.

Thinking back to discovering the rescued composition book brings me to tears. It’s almost like my grandmother is talking to me from beyond the grave saying, keep writing. Don’t give up. Your work isn’t garbage. Maybe she was biased because she was my relative, but I can’t describe how grateful I am to her for that vicarious act of encouragement.

I still have that composition book. Maybe one day I’ll transcribe my story and cringe at what I wrote. Or maybe I’ll realize I wasn’t that bad for only being 10 when I wrote it. But either way, it is a reminder to me to never underestimate myself, because who knows? Maybe someone will like what I’ve written.