K.E. Jones- Writer

On a Thursday in 1987, my third-grade class marched in a straight line to the library. Many Thursdays had come and gone in my eight years on this earth, but this one was different; this one changed my life. Our librarian, Mrs. Fielder, walked in a hunched position, making her the butt of children’s jokes, but for me, she was a hero. She was stern, demanded respect, and was undoubtedly the most intelligent woman I had ever known. Each trip to the library began with the class sitting on a round orange and red carpet, keeping our hands to ourselves, and listening to her read a quick book, normally Curious George. We had a half hour to find our next reads; most of the girls scanned through chapter books about horses and babysitters, and the boys argued over who would take the detailed car book home this week; the losers would choose the one about dinosaurs.  

Nothing impressed me.  

I wanted more: new worlds, new characters.  

I needed something different.  

 I was raised on a farm in the heart of Churchville, Maryland. The land consisted of a long forest, two cornfields, and a huge garden. Our house was called a duplex, where two houses connected in the middle with a thin wall between them. A lot like townhouses, but only two. My grandmother was an avid reader of The Hardy Boys and the King James Bible. Growing up in a religious household meant I had many rules to adhere to, the biggest one being to stay away from anything my grandmother deemed ungodly, which was everything she did not like. A few examples of these ungodly things were rock and roll, The Twilight Zone, and anything associated with the horror genre.  

As it turned out, these were my favorite things.  

There is a freedom in being a kid, and then there are the expectations others place on us. We only know what we want to be. We have hopes and dreams that live within our imaginations. Some kids want to be police officers; others want to be teachers or nurses; I wanted to be a writer. Before the Thursday occurred that altered my life, I wanted to write stories like Dr. Seuss, or Judy Blume (especially ones like Super Fudge), but that day Mrs. Fielder changed my whole perspective of the world, and with it, she changed me.  

The school’s library was sectioned off. Each grade level had their own section- books that were appropriate for that age group. I wandered around the third-grade shelves, disenchanted. None of the titles spoke to me. I sat on the sharing rug, waiting for the hour to end. Mrs. Fielder peered over her book, then sat down beside me.  

“What’s wrong, kid?” 

I shrugged. When you’re eight years old, especially from a very religious household, there were some questions that adults asked, and they were better left unanswered.  

“Let’s go on an adventure, shall we?” 

 We strolled through the sections; she pointed to a few books she thought I could enjoy. Black Beauty? No. The Babysitters club? Never. Then she walked to the fourth and fifth grade shelves. She stood there a bit, pulled out various books, and walked back to me with her arms filled. 

“Let’s put these on my desk and see if you can find something intriguing.” 

And I did.  

There were so many new worlds lying before me. I was in awe at the artistic covers; I turned them over and read the synopses, cuddled two of them to my chest, smiled at her, and handed them over.  

“Oh, I see.” 

She took the cards from the back sleeves, wrote my name, and stamped them with their return date. When I got home, I unpacked my bookbag and ran for my room before my grandmother could see what I had; The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe by C.S Lewis and Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz lay on my bed.  

This was the day I fell in love with fantasy and gothic horror and the moment I knew what type of writer I wanted to be. I wrote every day. Poems, short stories- I even attempted to write songs at one point. I saved my allowance for notebooks and pens. I hid under the covers at night and read by a flashlight. I devoured every book I could in those genres, and my imagination soared.  

Then one day I turned sixteen and found out I was pregnant. I was terrified. I quit school, got married at eighteen years old, and divorced at twenty. Demands of motherhood and working two, sometimes three, jobs did not give me a lot of time to write. When you are a young mother, newly divorced, your only focus is survival. Not only do you have to learn what being a mother really means, you must ensure that all stay alive, and dreams are only that: dreams. When my kids got older, were out of school, and had their own children to survive for, I attempted to write again, but my words had been stolen through the years, and when I finally had the time to say something, I had nothing left to say. Or so I thought. 

I used to be under the impression that as you got older, you got wiser. That life became easier. But with age comes new experiences, and as you question what your purpose is (and we all question this at some point) after the kids are grown and gone, you begin to see just how fast times goes by and the importance of seizing each day. Sometimes you are even put in a position that forces you to ask yourself a very important question: “If I were to die tomorrow, what would I regret the most?” 

Don’t ask me why this morbid thought plagues us later in life, I only know that it does, but when it did for me, the only regret I really had was not following my dream of becoming a writer. I was at a crossroads. I could continue to feel sorry for myself, feel as if I had no purpose in life, or I could do something about it. That week, I enrolled into college with a focus on English- creative writing. 

To my surprise, I found out that I was pretty good at writing academically, and I still had a knack for writing poetry, but neither of these genres were the desire of my heart.  

I took a fiction class.  

I bombed it.  

I stopped writing. 

Again. 

Negativity plagued me. Anxiety moved into my mind and made its comfy home. My grandmother’s ghost wouldn’t shut up; God would surely smite me if I insisted on pursuing my dream. I wasn’t good at it anyway. And I was going to hell, for sure. Insomnia controlled my nights and panic attacked my days. I felt sick and nervous all the time. I was angry. Frustrated. Depressed. I turned away from the smiting God and disassociated from the family. And yet, my heart would not let go of its desire. 

I was lost with no direction. Just sitting around, twiddling my thumbs while staring at the wall. Then, I had a moment of clarity. What could I do right where I was? The next day, I enrolled into SNHU to pursue my bachelor’s degree in English, and three months in, I decided to focus on creative writing. I took another fiction course, and again bombed it, but I did not bomb it as badly as the last one. And instead of giving up, I decided that I was going to fight against the anxiety. I bought books on writing fiction. I used my literary analysis as a strength and analyzed every short story in the horror genre I could find. I took a poetry course to work on my figurative language skills. I connected to authors in the genre, even befriending a professor. And through a media class, I began a blog and author website. I learned about author branding and how to make media work to my advantage, even though I wasn’t published. And I took another fiction course.  

This time, it was not so bad.  

I am a firm believer that things happen for a reason and that we get to choose our paths in this life. We hold the power to change our course. There are moments- some call fate- that occur out of nowhere, and sometimes in these moments, one is plunged into everything they’ve ever wanted. Predestined experiences that not only changes us but also change the roads we were on.  

Was it fate? Or was it a choice?  

I think it was both.  

I was not going to give up on my dream. I was not going to allow others to dictate who I was, or how I live my life. If God was mad at me for using the talents He gave me, we would have to deal with that later. The negative voices became louder, but this time I was going to do what my heart told me to. I wrote. Isn’t that really what a writer’s journey, or anyone’s journey, is about? Trying. Pursuing. Working. Failing. Starting again. 

Am I a published author?  

No. 

But am I working towards that goal? 

Absolutely.  

Where there is breath, there is hope. The most valuable lessons I have learned on this journey are to find out who you are. Who is the 3am you? What do you like? What do you feel? Embrace who you are. I guarantee you that this is the key to success. Do not listen to the voice of others. Stare at a wall, forget everything you were ever told, twiddle your thumbs, contemplate the world, and make those dreams happen.  

Will I be the next Stephen King or C.S. Lewis at forty- five years old? 

 Maybe not.  

But… maybe I will.