Emily Dickinson is Laughing, part 3

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by Cami Walters-Nihipali

Idealism and dreamery have defined most of my existence, my head firmly in the clouds. There are moments when I tripped and fell because I wasn’t paying enough attention and had to get up, dust myself off and keep moving forward, to be sure, but for the most part, my rose-colored lenses have kept the writing dream alive. As those of us who have been around more than a quarter-of-a-century know, life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans. I had big plans. Big City plans. Big City, Big Publishing House plans. 

Then I met a man.

Fell in love.

Got married.

A healthy dose of reality hit, and I found myself standing in a classroom of thirty-six kindergarten students pursuing the back-up plan. A twenty-three year old with dreams of being a published writer, teaching. Right. I was in the middle of a cliche. After Kindergarten, it was third grade. Then middle school. I spent the next ten years in a middle school English classroom and then the next ten after that either in a high school English classroom or in administration. Breaks and summers, when I wasn’t teaching, I was writing. A romance novel, and then another, and then a third. All rejected.

I had to acknowledge the finality of death I wasn’t prepared to face; I had to look in the mirror and ask myself  ‘Are you who you are supposed to be? Are you happy?’

While I never intended to follow the Emily Dickinson writing plan, it sort of seemed I was treading that path (minus the fame and notoriety, of course). My writing listed toward a drowning in the mire of responsibilities of daily life. I was teaching others to study story and to write, and my writing came after everything and everyone else. I continued tinkering with my writing, however, always the thread of the novel and story at the core, but poetry, short reflective pieces found purchase. Then, I faced and accepted that my life was to be offered in service to others. I became complacent.

The turning point occurred in 2017 when my father unexpectedly passed away. When I had to acknowledge the finality of death I wasn’t prepared to face, I had to look in the mirror and ask myself  “Are you who you are supposed to be? Are you happy?” At that point, I was teaching but I wasn’t writing anymore. I’d folded it and put it in a hope chest to save for someone someday, like Emily Dickinson’s poetry, tucked away for someday. Someone else’s dream. I was content to leave well enough alone until grief made me look harder at what else I’d locked into the hope chest. My identity.

A year later, I pulled myself out of the hope chest, and tried again. Swimming Sideways was finished, and The Ugly Truth, then The Bones of Who We Are in draft form. As novels with niche appeal and darker YA themes, I had a difficult time shopping them to agents, so I faced the decision to independently publish them. I did because I continued to ask myself the question: Who are you? I answered: I am a writer. I am a storyteller. I am a teacher. I am what I am. I knew the dream wouldn’t wait anymore. The journey from initial publication to opening my own imprint, Mixed Plate Press, has been like traversing the road to Hana, Maui, but experience is the best teacher. 

I don’t begrudge the long, many tiered journey, though perhaps while in the midst of it, I could taste the bitterness of impatience. I learned so much about story, about writing, about planning, and goal setting, about using my time advantageously, about research, about working with others and offering gentle coaching, about being a kind human, about observing others and learning, about leading and following, about what truly matters and what doesn’t. Each of these skills acquired in the bridge between my early dreams and my current dreams have offered experiences that have made me more vibrant as I pursue my own passion. These experiences honed what has become Mixed Plate Press, and for that I’m so grateful for each step of my journey.

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Perhaps Emily Dickinson is laughing, or maybe wherever she is in the afterlife, she’s content to know that she fueled dreams. I can’t know, but I can say that whatever the future holds—more of my own manuscripts to publish, more teaching and supporting of others with their dreams, more revision of what my own dreams entail—I’m content to walk the path and am looking forward to the dreamers I meet along the way.

A Story Stall: Character Motives

Emily Dickinson is Laughing, part 2

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