Release the anger (Subtitle: Why I'm not an author...)

Tonight at Bible study, we had a really good discussion on anger.  I don't generally think of myself as an angry person (although I do get angry at certain things... slave trade and human trafficking, lack of rights for the unborn, WoW addictions, etc), so I probably don't pay as much attention as I should to parts of the Bible that address it, which means that tonight's study was good for me in bringing up something I might otherwise avoid.

Of course during the discussion, the idea of righteous anger was addressed.  The Bible specifically mentions God's anger at times, often directed toward his ever wayward people, the Israelites, along with various times that even Jesus was angry (at his disciples when they fell asleep instead of praying, at the money changers in the temples, etc).  But one thing that came out was that it seems that all the times righteous anger is mentioned in the Bible, it's a short-lived thing.  It's never that God burns with anger and just lets it smolder for centuries.

So that got me thinking about anger that I hold on to, which reminded me of a few things that came up over this weekend during some mostly funny discussions with my family during my dad's birthday lunch.  And one of those things is the Young Authors Conference (this is where the post's subtitle will finally tie in.  And you thought I was just not an author because I write poorly!).

I've decided it's finally time to get over my anger at not getting to go to Young Authors.  Maybe it's more of a bitterness at this point, but let's face it, bitterness doesn't sound good (or taste good) either, so it's time to let it go.  But let me tell you my story first.

Back in the day when I was in elementary school, there was a yearly event called the Young Authors Conference, for which students were chosen to attend based on various qualifications related to writing.  The goal was to inspire students to write, to find joy in both reading other literature and authoring stories of their own.  It was to inspire creativity, the use of an extended vocabulary, and sometimes even the skill of illustration (as most of what we wrote in elementary school were picture books).

When I was a wee child, probably about the age of 6, I was chosen to attend the Young Author's Conference.  Why?  Because I dictated a story that my mom wrote down, and I illustrated.  And because I took said story into school and showed my teacher.  And because my teacher made a fancy cover for the book using fabric with daisies on it.  And, well, because I was probably the only kid in first grade to "write" a story and there was an opening to go, and ta-da, Kelsey gets to fill the spot and attend.

So I went.  And I'm sure I enjoyed it.  I remember very little (i.e. nothing) except that I brought home a book that had something to do with a guy who folded paper, and it was signed by the author.  I also have  a vague recollection that something about the book scared me, but then again, I had a lot of irrational fears when I was that age and did things like jump from the doorway onto my bed to avoid the wolves I was sure lived underneath.  (Note: to jump from the doorway of my room to my bed means nothing as my bed came all the way to the doorway of my room)

That's all neither here nor there.  The point is, I was now an aspiring author.

And I loved it.  I loved to read, as evidenced by the number of personal pan pizzas consumed because of my participation in some sort of Pizza Hut sponsored reading program.  So it was only natural that I also liked to tell my own stories.  And tell them I did.

Every year I submitted another story to the Young Author's competition, and every year, for some reason or another I was denied.  Of course the competition was a little more intimidating, since I was no longer the only student writing.  But I'd still claim I was exceptional little author.

This is where the anger comes in.  I still remember (as much as I can actually remember anything that far back) submitting a story in fourth grade about an alien coming to earth and being befriended by a human.  It was amazing, of course, and even the illustrations were good (I was learning how to make some things look more 3D and spent a while perfecting the stairs leading up to the human friend's house).  It was not chosen.  My teacher informed me that my story was good, but since I had been to Young Author's before, it was only fair to give someone else a chance.

C'mon lady, that was first grade!  But ok, in the essence of fairness, fine, send someone with a second-rate story in my place.  In all honesty, I have to admit now, looking back, that there were, I'm sure, other stories as excellent as mine or even better.  But that's not how you feel when you've been hours perfecting your own masterpiece.

Also, on a side note, I (or possibly my dad) submitted the same story to some sort of separate competition, and I won a printer!  In truth, this was probably actually more valuable than a trip to Young Author's, and I should have been very happy indeed.

In fifth grade, we were told we could work in groups.  We were also fairly warned ahead of time that if we did choose to work in groups, only one of the members of the winning group would actually be able to attend Young Author's as there was limited space.  I chose to work with my best friend at the time, Jenni, and we wrote a book that had a character named Mr. Hickory (that's honestly the only thing I remember about the book).  And we won.  And of course I let Jenni go because I had gone in first grade.

Then, I find out later that the other fifth grade class sent a group of three (count 'em, 1...2...3!) girls to the YA conference.  Boy, was I steamed.  Now, looking back, this story is reminiscent of the parable about the people who were asked to work for a denarius or something and then get upset at the end of the day when people who worked for less time were also paid a denarius.  But truth be told, how could they be upset when that's what was agreed upon in the first place?  I could have chosen to write a story on my own if it was going to be that big of a deal!

Sixth grade was my last year for redemption.  And sixth grade was also the year of pneumonia.  I'm pretty sure I was out for the majority of the YA prep time, and although I think I asked my dad to submit a story I had written on the side (Mystery in Malaam (which I don't remember how to spell), written after a trip to Ghana).  But I think by the time I tried to have him turn it in for me, it was too late, and thus, no YA again.  And sixth grade's the cut-off, so no more YA ever.

My authoring dreams were crushed.

Ok, so now that I've got it all out on paper, we can see that it was all ridiculous.  We can also see other reasons that I'm not an author.  And lastly, we can see that I have a horrific memory anyway, so why does it matter whether I went to Young Authors or not?

I also had loving parents who encouraged me to keep reading and writing anyway, so truth be told, I have no excuse (other than my poor ability to tell good stories) for why I'm not an author today.

Young Authors, I apologize for my anger toward you all these years.  Thank you for taking me in during first grade and introducing me to my fear of folded paper (just kidding).  No, but seriously, I think it's great that there is something like Young Authors, and if nothing else, I can always try to tag along as a chaperone when I force my own kids to write something brilliant and win a chance to go.