Holy Moly Motherhood By Alana Smith Just press send

A year ago, as I was reading the stack of farm and train books to my almost two-year-old, that he had proudly picked out for bedtime, I felt a pull to do more with my writing.

Why couldn’t I have a book on that shelf?

Well, because you aren’t a writer.

And because you know nothing about children’s literature.

Smith

And because you just aren’t good enough.

These thoughts came quick and loud.

So I decided I would start learning. I read up on publishing houses, literary agents, and writing picture books. There was a sea of information that I had no idea existed. I walked the rows at our library, studying books and noting what I liked and didn’t like. Learning how to fit in this space that so few fit in.

I started writing wherever and whenever I could. On breaks at work, or when my youngest would nap. I’d share essays on social media, and scribble thoughts of articles in a notebook, or save them to my phone. I bought a laptop that was just for my writing. And I read everything I could read, paying close attention to what made the story work — what made me want to turn the next page.

Sean of the South

We were newlyweds, living in a grungy apartment.

Each morning, I would wake before her. I would pass my morning hours writing poetry on a yellow legal pad, sipping coffee.

Mostly, I’d write the kinds of god-awful things you’d expect newlyweds to write. I’m talking painfully corny stuff. I’d leave these poems on slips of paper scattered throughout our apartment for her to find.

One such poem read:

Together, the two of us, In thought, and deed, and breath, and heart, Shall never be lacerated apart.

Gag me with number-two pencil. “Lacerated?” What kind of a dork uses that word? In fact, I’m not certain this verb works in this particular case.

LACERATE [verb: las-uhreyt] lac·er·at·ed, lac·er·at·ing 1. to tear; mangle; rip.

Example: Hey dude, that poem you wrote really freakin’ lacerated.

My wife saved all my crummy poems in a shoebox, and today they reside in a storage closet.

Anyway, when we first married, we lived in an apartment that smelled like dead squirrels. I am not being figurative. I mean our apartment actually had a nest of decomposing squirrels in the attic above our master bedroom.

The place was tiny, and about as ugly

I think this new found passion made my husband and family wonder where this had come from. “You never wanted to write when you were younger,” they’d say. And they were right. Because I didn’t — until I did.

I knew I had to get out of my comfort zone and spread my wings with writing, otherwise I wouldn’t succeed. No one can read something that I don’t put out into the world.

As I was reading our local newspaper, 280 Living, I flipped to the editorial section. There were two columnists featured — a man writing on life in the South, and a woman writing about raising teenage girls. But that was all. Nothing that resembled the life that I was leading, with two small boys, in the trenches of early motherhood.

I typed up an email, asking the editor to take a chance on me. I told her that I could reach a whole group of readers like me. I attached a sample of my writing, and hoped she wouldn’t notice my lack of experience.

And I hovered over the send button. What am I doing?

There is no way this editor is even going to read my email.

By Sean Dietrich