The Real Reason I Stopped Writing

A few months ago a friend introduced me to a young woman.  This young woman, she said, was a literary agent and she wanted me to contact her.  I, after all, should be published!

So I talked to the agent who then asked to see some of my work.  I furiously wrote and rewrote before sending her more poetry and the pages that I hoped would evolve into my memoir.

She loved it all.  She said I was extremely talented and that she couldn't wait to work with me.  She rattled off a list fo the publishing houses with whom she had personal contacts, assured me that she could get me published somewhere.  She wanted to see me make my dreams come true.  She even wanted to fly to Chicago to meet me.

But then I asked her just exactly what her contract entailed.

"500 dollar retainer fee," she said. 

My heart sank. 

Even though I knew it sounded foul, I spent hours researching to doucble-check and confirm that what I thought was true was true indeed.  It was.

I called her back.  Said "thanks, but no thanks."  And I felt like I was saying no to a dream.

I stopped writing everything.  No morning pages, no blog posts, hardly a tweet. 

So that is the real reason I stopped writing.  I felt foolish, stupid, undeserving of my dream.

But I came to my senses and remembered that this is the reason I live: To put my words down on the paper.  "Published"--and I use this term loosely--or not, I am, have always been, and will forever be a writer.