Nobody is going to like me Today or never

Today's Twitter Relaxation Challenge was to read an old book for fun. This led me to one of my favorite author's autobiographies, Hand to Mouth: A Chronicle of Early Failure, by Paul Auster. Reading the first few lines made me crack the smile that first crossed my lips when I read Auster's City of Glass in college. I thought, "If I could write well, this is what it would sound like."

Thumbing through Hand to Mouth, which highlights Auster's irrational desires to pursue the writer's life despite mounting financial and emotional trauma, I remember: I had wanted to be a writer when I was young. I forgot the credence I gave to writing. I remember the hunt for journals at bookstores: I'd feel the covers, paper weight and texture, trying to decide between lined and unlined, imagining how differently I would write in each. On our home computer I’d stay up all night plucking at the keyboard as if I was composing a beautiful melody. I would obsessively read, review, and hide my writing, waiting for the right moment to reveal it to a friend, a teacher, or boyfriend.

Writing was my main avocation (shortly after I declared I’d be President of the World, and long before I wanted to be an opera singer). My first story was published at age 4 (according to my mother) featuring scribbles in blue highlighter on pink legal pad bound with a frightening display of staples entitled, Nobody is going to like me Today or never.


Nobody chronicled my childhood mistakes and revealed misgivings that no one would ever find me acceptable. I considered the offense of my existence so vast that I created a scene where crowds jeered, “Boo Milena!" and cheered the rest of the world on with the vague and heartbreaking anthem, "Yay others!” However, in the end I declare, “If I wasn’t all that I’d be nothing, so love me for who I am.” Heavy stuff for a 4 year old I suppose.

I created a magazine that I published haphazardly called FunPack full of amateur crosswords, fill-in-the-blanks, and connect-the-dots for my older sister to complete. Upon distribution my subscriber struggled through a few of my exercises to placate me, but I didn’t recognize my audience wasn’t receptive to my content until she flat-out refused to accept another issue.

An activist at heart, I created a full-color pamphlet on the dangers of smoking for my parents. I devised a female character with a lit cigarette everywhere she went. While scuba-diving she sported a waterproof extra-long cigarette sticking up like a parascope. On her wedding day instead of a kiss, the happy couple matched end-butts. Smoking was ultimately this character's demise and the final scene displayed a lit cigarette protruding out of her coffin. I thought that if they realized how ridiculous my fictional character was, they'd be convinced to quit via parable.

Eager to share my writing with anyone, in high school my friend was late on an assignment and I convinced her to turn in a short story I had written instead. Much to my chagrin, her teacher wanted to nominate it for an writing competition and she had to turn down the offer. I remember the ache I felt in getting this phantom recognition and rejection, wondering if I could repeat whatever spark the teacher had enjoyed in my work.

I'm finding this relaxation challenge is a lot less about relaxation than simply enjoying myself and settling in to who I am. In my efforts to cultivate the things I enjoy, I keep discovering my past, my hidden dreams and blisses. I'm finding the antidote to my fears and the ways that I used to keep my creativity fresh as a child are strikingly similar to what feeds me creatively as an adult.