Writing Tips...

Nothing Wrong With Pretending ©
by Linda Broday

When I was young, back when TV didn't rule our lives, my sister and I used to spend many hours dressing up in our older, married sister's things. She'd let us wear her high heels and clothes in exchange for washing her dishes. A fair return, we thought at the time. We were young and not too bright, you see.

We'd pretend to be young ladies with babies and husbands to care for. I'd get goose bumps wondering what my future held. I couldn't wait to grow up and find out. To discover what it felt like to be kissed by a boy, or hold my very own baby in my arms. Those were dreams I loved to act out in my make-believe fantasy land.

Today I woke up to find I hadn't moved very far from those times. I'm still pretending. Still living in my dream world. And, I'm still a little girl playing dress up. I woke up to the reality that I'm only masquerading as an adult.

Oh, I know what it feels like to love and what truly the miracle of birth is. What I am trying to say is - I don't have the wisdom or self-confidence that I should at my age. I haven't moved from that childish view of the future as some magical moment when it's all going to come together and I'll have this incredible revelation. That hasn't happened.

Adults are supposed to know stuff, portray an attitude of assurance, have attained maturity. I'm as far from those things as daylight is from dark.

As you all know, the last fifteen months have thrown me some difficult challenges. Each one tested my attitude in ways I couldn't imagine.

First my eyesight began failing. Okay, I could handle that. I still had a dream. It'd call for some adjustment on my part, but I could continue to do the things I liked to do. Next came balance problems, then loss of feeling in my hands and feet. I had to depend on a cane in order to motivate.

Fine, I'd just pretend to be Stephen King or someone equally famous. Run over by a car, an author with a broken leg would be noble. How could I tell people I'd lost my ability to walk because of a virus? Nothing as explainable as a mangled limb. Thing was, it wasn't even a virus I could put a name to like polio or meningitis. Oh no, this was something which no one had ever heard of.

But, I wasn't ready to admit defeat despite feeling that I couldn't, and didn't, handle my problems like a capable adult. I knew it would all come down to attitude. About staying positive and keeping a goal alive. (Being Taurus, the Bull didn't hurt any either.) My life had changed, but it was far from over. I simply had to adjust to new limitations. I'd be lying if I said it was easy. It was all about keeping your eye on the ball. In this case, finishing my fourth manuscript and beginning a fifth and on to eventually becoming a published author.

At times it felt as if I were racing against the clock. With my eyesight deterioration progressing faster than I could write, it terrified me to think I might never be able to get the darn thing completed. Finishing what I start has always been a compulsion with me though, thank God.

So, in between five hospital stays and more doctor appointments than Carter's got pills, I wrote. Sometimes it was only a page a day, sometimes no pages a day. But I'd make up for those days when I felt good and put out ten pages or more. The thing was, I kept plugging away.

I had a vision. A reason to wake up in the mornings. I could live in my fantasy world as much as I wanted. You know what? I completed a 100,000 word novel in twelve months in spite of the interruptions. I typed the final page the week before I went in the hospital again for seven more days in August. The immense satisfaction I felt equaled what it must feel like to reach the top of Mt. Everest. The novel might never be published, but it will always remain a symbol of my perseverance. And, if by some quirk of fate, it does make the book shelves (other than my own) the price will have been small in comparison to my great joy. Life is wonderful and good and exciting if we only let it be.

I don't see that I'm courageous or brave as some have claimed. I'm not. I simply played the cards fate dealt me - and pretended I was Joan of Arc, fighting for a cause. You see? I'm still that little girl dressed up in adult clothes. I have a sneaking suspicion I always will be, no matter how old I get.

Back to top
Back to Writing Tips