“How did you become a ghostwriter?” someone asked. We were at a networking event, so I explained the leaps of faith I made from my decades as an artist to the new field of writing. Some of you already know my parents labeled me an artist at the age of five. This was solely based on my ability to copy a simple line drawing from the phone book. Because of them, I tried many different expressions of art.

Although I could do anything, it took years to figure out art really didn’t light me up. Paper, pens and pencils were always available and art supplies were costly. I drew a lot but I loved creative writing assignments best. No one in my family took notice of this. Nor did they pay attention to it the summer my sister and I wrote our own short stories. Even though my dad was in publishing, they focused on my art.

In junior high, I wrote the advice column of our teeny class paper called “Our Times.” No one with serious problems talked about them in 7th grade. The toughest problems were mostly the work of pranksters. “My dog is the teeniest in the neighborhood, but she mated with the biggest dog on the street, and now she’s expecting! What should I do??” My dad was the wisdom behind many of my published answers. (A: Let nature take its course.)  

My writing got little attention until I wrote an anonymous letter expressing my utter hopelessness regarding the future. This was discovered by a teacher. Based on my handwriting, they found me out. Suddenly, my words had a frightening amount of power. Like a kid holding a loaded gun who doesn’t understand what can happen — until it goes off. The principal pulled me aside and introduced me to the on-staff counselor, for a lengthy stint of questioning. (Note to self: nothing is anonymous.)

After the counseling incident, I took my writing underground. Fiction seemed a safer place to write from. I penned a few exceptionally lame stories, then began reading Go Ask Alice. By the time I finished, I had a different take on what to write about and took to journaling. They were free thought, typical of the age: heartbreak, experimentation with cannabis, drinking, smoking and psychedelic rock music, day-glo posters. As the oldest of six kids, and witness to my parents disintegrating marriage and subsequent splintering of my siblings, I wrote what I saw. I questioned one parent’s anger, despair, and eventual attempt to take their own life.

Except for one unfortunate incident when I was nineteen, I never showed these thoughts to anyone. And though my words usually got me into lots of trouble, it was also writing that saved me.

By getting it out, I remained grounded enough to function in the larger world and become an observer of people. What I discovered during those years: I’m quirky. We’re all quirky. We all have family laundry we don’t want aired. Even if doing so helps us gain our healing. We all have shame and secrets. We all have hopes and dreams and aspirations for our future.

When I moved out, my hundreds-of-pages diary fell into the hands of my mother. Through coercion, my brother rescued it, (I implicated him in our drug experiments). Later fearing their wrath if he was caught with it, the 700-hundred page journal was burned. However, she’d seen enough and banished me from the family home for several years. Many years passed, years which will be discussed at length in my cathartic, first personal self-help book.

As a single mother I met my trusted spiritual mentor, Vera Hassell. “You really need to do something with your writing.” Only then did I consider wordsmith as a living.

I saw a writing test in classifieds of a women’s magazine. I toe-dipped the waters, took the test and sent it to them expecting to be rejected outright. You’d be a great candidate for our writing program!

Was that an honest evaluation? Two years later, I enrolled, and joined a writer’s group with my fourteen year old daughter. I was published within two years, won an award, and regularly sent pieces to various publications. It sounds easy. It was a long series of forward steps, aligning with mentors who helped me catch the true vision of my future. Of my family, no one saw this bent for writing but my youngest brother — who was proud to be proven right.

From the writers’ group, a playwright wanted me to work with him because he loved my dialog. Although our literary visions were different the play was the impetus for my epic novel Painting the Rain and expanded the story line. I fell in love with writing books.

With mentors, I moved along the writing path much more quickly. “When the student it ready, the teacher appears.” I loved everything about writing books. I wanted to help new voices share their stories in the marketplace. I knew enough to help them publish their work.

One mentor led to a ghostwriting mentor who provided resources for running a ghostwriting business. At this time, I’ve assisted with over a dozen books.

What does this mean for you?

Are you doing what you really want with your life? Even if the answer is no, trust that nothing will be wasted. The networking and skills learned along the way will all be useful for reasons you may not imagine in this moment. I’ve been surprised to see everything that seemed like a leftover insight or unused talent has come into play since launching the ghostwriting business.

Stay the course! Hold tight to your dreams and keep moving forward–even if it’s only one percent! Your next break could be right around the corner, in the next conversation, through the next person you meet or the next event you attend. It could even be the lady in front of you at the grocery. Seeing a dream through to its realization can be one of the most spectacular events of your life. It’s worth pursuing no matter how long it takes. Meanwhile, what might you do differently to nudge your dream forward?

Need more encouragement for following your dreams? Check out Designing Your Own Life.