Janelle Evans

I must admit there have been many low points in my journey as a writer, where I laid awake at night haunted by unfulfilled expectations. I never dreamed it would take this long to finally see one of my novels in print.  Trying to analyze why only makes it worse.  It’s very easy to think the length of time is a reflection on the amount of success I will have—and so many years have passed.  Am I now too old to ever be relevant?

Then I have to remind myself of the hundreds of people in history who didn’t have instant success, yet left powerful marks on society.  Two that come to mind first are R.H. Macy and Henry Ford.  Yes, I know they aren’t writers, but their struggles, which were well into their fifties before they tasted success, help me push my imagined expectations aside.

There is no magic number.  It will never be “too late” for any of us, even if we fail at first.  If we never give up, there’s always the hope of next time.     

Everyone needs confidence.  Without it you won’t even try.  But confidence cannot be given by another, it must be found within.  And therein is the problem with my youngest.  When it comes to swimming, he has no confidence in himself.

After years and years of being taught by me, I know he can swim.  The pools in the small town where we live require all children to cross the length of the pool on their stomachs before they can either be without a parent or a lifejacket.  I refuse to let any child of mine be in a lifejacket while in a pool situation, so he’s stuck with mommy whenever we go.  He doesn’t like it, but every time we try to pass that infernal swim test, he panics at the length of the 25meter pool.  He can’t even go ten feet before his head pops up and starts screaming his tummy hurts.  Good grief!  If you give the boy a shorter pool, say 10meters, he’ll cross is back and forth all day long, but 25meters…in his little mind, it can’t be done.

It’s so frustrating for me, wishing he’d just let go and put a little faith in himself.  Or Jeeze, how about a little faith in me as not only his instructor but mommy.  I’d never have him do something that would put him in harm’s way, but he thinks I’m trying to kill him.  I guess only time will tell which one of us is right.

I really appreciate the opportunities I’ve had to drive down and spend time with my mother these past few months.  Though chemo has been hard for her pancreatic cancer, she hasn’t lost her sense of quiet resolve, or her sense of humor.

She now has a sign posted near her front door that reads “Never take life too seriously.  Nobody gets out alive anyway.”

She doesn’t care if it makes her morbid to have such a sign in her house, it makes her laugh.  And maybe I’m wrong, but the sign made me laugh too.  It also reminds me to not sweat the small stuff in life, to laugh more, and to find the joy in every moment I have left with her—whether it will be months or years.  With her positive attitude, I’m storing way more upbeat and happy memories of my mother through this trail she is suffering than sad ones—a gift to my soul I will forever treasure.  Mom…you’re awesome.

I sat one morning this week finishing my bowl of cereal when my youngest comes rushing into the kitchen, wearing the triumphant grin of a tattler.

“Mommy, mommy, he’s popping his pegs,” he tells me, ratting out his bigger brother, and expecting me to curb such appalling behavior.  He’s cute and a red head, so I could have agreed and just said, “Off with the oldest head,” except I’d never heard the term ‘popping his pegs’ before.

Undeterred by my, “Huh” and dumb founded expression, he took my hand and pulled me into my bedroom where the other kids were waiting in their swim suits to be coated in sunscreen for the day.

“He’s popping his pegs, he’s popping his pegs.”  He pointed at my oldest who had his head down with a bright red flush of embarrassment spreading across his cheeks.

I ask what he was doing but he refuses to show me at first.  Like every parent, his refusal makes me think the worst of whatever ‘popping his pegs’ is.  “You show me right now,” I demand listing out the many privileges I will be taking away from my eleven-year-old if he doesn’t.

To my surprise, he starts flexing his pectoral muscles in an alternating pattern (left, right, left, right, left, right…) like some ripped beef-cake showing off for the women on the beach.

I burst out laughing, realizing ‘popping his pegs’ actually meant ‘popping his pecks’, which of course only embarrasses my oldest more.

Thankfully no punishment was needed, but I did have to warn—okay tease—my oldest.  “Careful who you pop those pegs in front of; girls might try and follow you home.”  Those “peg poppers” are potent stuff. 🙂

Have you ever noticed how powerful word-of-mouth is?  It might take some time, but if the offering is great enough, word-of-mouth will spread it like a wild fire.  For example, I’m teaching swim lessons this summer.  I hadn’t planned on it.  But after helping a few families take their children from non-swimmers to downright fishes last summer, people hadn’t stopped approaching me about teaching their children this summer.  Good thing I love to teach swimming.

It gives me hope I will be able to grow my status as an unknown author into a recognizable name, with clout and a loyal audience.  It comes down to my product.  Is my debt novel “Worth?” good enough?  I truly believe it’s something special, but only time will tell if the audience agrees.  This is where my hands are tied—my fate is given to others. It comes down to you.  I can post and talk until my fingers are numb and my voice is gone, it won’t mean much if you don’t help me.  When “Worth?” comes out in November, get it, read it.  And if you love it?  For heaven’s sake don’t keep it a secret!  Tell everyone you know.

An unexpected surprise showed up on my doorstep this week—a blast from my past.  Years ago, and I mean years, (before I had children), I became an interpreter for the deaf.  It was the one and only job I’ve ever had that I didn’t go searching for—it found me.

When twin deaf boys moved to the small town I was living in, I received a call from the desperate school district.  They needed an interpreter, and through the prevalent rumor mill every small town has, they’d been told I knew sign language.

Yes, it wasn’t a lie, I could string a few sentences together in sign language, and I had taken many college courses on the subject, but to be an interpreter?  Holy Cow talk about being tossed out of your comfort zone.

No one else could be found, so I took the job.  At first, it was on the premise I would interpret until someone more qualified could be found.  It didn’t take long for me and school to realize they didn’t need to find anyone else. I was more than capable for the job.

I will forever be grateful I chose to take that risk.  Those three years I spent working with those boys taught me things about myself I might never have discovered if I hadn’t taken the opportunity to step out of my comfort zone.

And that’s who was on my door step, one of those boys.  He’d tracked me down, to show me what he’d made of himself.  With hands flying, he talked about his job, wife, and children.  I couldn’t have been prouder at what he’d done with his life.

I told him he had to come back so I could redeem myself.  I had to keep telling him to slow down and many signs I couldn’t remember anymore.  I guess the old saying is true; if you don’t use it you’ll lose it.  I definitely need to bush up on my sign language—it’s been too long.