Got Talent? Use It! How I Became a Writer

With all due respect to her memory, my mother was wrong about every single thing in my life--except one: She said I should be a writer. I didn't listen until I was in my 30s.

There were signs that writing might be the thing for me. From early on, I liked writing. And I was good at it--unlike math. I hated math and I was not good at it. Looking back, it seems very simple.

I wrote my first book in 6th grade. It was a mystery called The Bent Key. I never finished it, and to this day, my two daughters have pushed me to publish it--something I wrote 16 years before the first one was born. The whole thing came about because several girls in one of cool groups in 6th grade decided one week to write books instead of torture the uncool.

I was one of the uncool.

But I also decided to write a book. After our teachers found out that several of us were writing on our own, they asked us to read our books out loud. One book was about a puppy. Another one was about some other mundane thing. But The Bent Key was a major hit-so much so that every teacher asked me to read the book in each sixth grade class that day.

Everyone encouraged me to finish it, saying I was going to be a writer for sure. It was surprising to me because I thought I might be a nurse at the time. I tried working on the book over the next weeks, but it coincided with my first panic attack at the age of 12. And perhaps that's why I didn't go on with it.

But I didn't stop writing other things. A bit later, I won two local writing contests-and got money for them. Well, I got savings bonds that didn't mean very much to me at the time. You can't buy a pair of jeans with a savings bond. It took me months to write thank-you notes to the committees sponsoring the contests; my mother was very embarrassed.

But she was extremely proud of something she had saved for years. It was a letter--on official stationery--from one of John F. Kennedy's aides, complimenting me on a Thanksgiving poem (something about feeding the poor) that my mother had sent to the President. Although I haven't located that letter since, I remember the words, "The President has read Ilene's poem and would like to thank you for sending it and to convey to your daughter that he wishes all our young people were so civic-minded."

Not bad, huh? But even that didn't convince me to pursue writing. But then again, I was just a kid.

Fast forward to ninth grade when I was 14 years old. My English teacher, Mr. Sullivan, was the first gay man I had ever met. I loved him and was terrified of him at the same time. But he was the one who set a spark in my mind about writing. I read my first Sherlock Holmes story in his class, and this started a lifelong obsession with the detective. Mr. Sullivan challenged my writing, critiqued it and pressed me to make it perfect. His was a very hard class. But if I was to trace my writing roots back to someone, it was Mr. Sullivan.

I remember how thrilled I was with one of his rare compliments on an essay of mine. He had circled a passage with his red pencil and noted, "I doubt any of my seniors (he also taught 12^th grade English) could handle this sentence as well as you have."

I graduated high school, went to SUNY-Binghamton and majored in sociology. Then I went for my Masters in Social Work at the University of Wisconsin. I was sure of my choice. My mother? She said, "I still think you should be a writer."

And I thought: What does she know?

After two miserable social work jobs and about eight years later, I started writing. First it was public relations on my own, and then on to articles for local Boston weeklies. I wrote after the birth of my first child and kept just going. I loved working on my own terms, the satisfaction of turning in a piece and the delight of seeing my by-line.

My first real break came after getting an assignment with the The Washington Post. I wrote an article on facial surgery for Down Syndrome children. Then came a long stint as a freelance writer for the health section of The Boston Globe's New Hampshire Weekly. I loved when the huge Sunday paper came to my door, knowing my byline hid in the middle of it, waiting for me to find it.

And then came Cosmopolitan, followed by the other "Seven Sisters" of the women's magazines. It was hard, wondering how long I could keep it up. And it was exhilarating. It was what I was meant to do, And I've been doing it for 25 years.

When I finally got into The Boston Globe, I wrote to thank Mr. Sullivan for his encouragement. But it was too late. My mother told me had Alzheimer's and I never heard back from him. I'd like to think that maybe someone read my letter to him. And that maybe he realized one of his students really did become a writer.

As for my mother? I refused to thank my mother for her opinion of what I should do with my life because of our very messy relationship. She died of colon cancer one year ago.

Should I have listened earlier to my mother, Mr. Sullivan and others? I have no idea. I'm just glad that in the end I listened to myself.

So here's to Mr. Sullivan: You were right. I should have been a writer--and I am one. And I will keep on being one--in bountiful writing times and bad times--because I'm good at it. And for me, it's the best career I could ever have.

Oh, and by the way, thanks, Mom.