When I began writing, I had difficulty finding my niche.

At first I tried historical romance, as I’d been an avid fan since my early teens. Devouring book after book, each one was an old friend, much loved and reread until the spine separated and the pages fell out. I assumed writing a hit novel would be a walk in the park given my longtime experience with bluebloods, castles and damsels in distress.

Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out that way. 

Although I didn’t know it at the time, my book was a pretty poor specimen; a copycat compilation of storylines I’d already read. But it wasn’t long before I figured out that something was wrong with it. Publishers and agents didn’t give it a second glance.  

Nursing a bruised ego, I returned to the drawing board. Up to that point I’d kept my ambitions to myself for the sake of self preservation. If my notoriously nosy friends and relatives knew what I was doing, I’d be badgered with unsolicited advice until I was forced to flee the country.

However one day secrecy flew out the window when my six year old daughter Julie caught me weeping over a rejection letter. Despite assurances that I was fine and a futile attempt to buy her silence with a new Barbie doll, she still blabbed. The news that “Mommy is sad because nobody likes her book” spread like wildfire.

Soon afterward they swarmed me like ants on a donut.

Suddenly the manuscript grew legs and disappeared. Of course no one would give up the culprit, so the source of my embarrassment made the rounds unimpeded while I braced myself for the inevitable.

Though they seldom agreed about much, my loved ones’ opinions were unanimous about the book’s subject matter.  

I should write about something else.

But no one could agree about what that should be.

“I don’t know why you waste your time writing about that castle and white knight stuff” remarked my husband as he rattled the newspaper. “It’s kind of corny.”

Tactfulness wasn’t his strong suit.

Then there was Suzanne, my BFF since the first grade.

“I think you should write a children’s book. You’ve always been a big baby, so you’d have no trouble connecting with a younger audience” she giggled.

Smarty pants.

Next was my mother.

“You’re pretty good in the kitchen. Why don’t you write a cookbook?” she asked.

“Mama, I’m not fond of cooking. I only do it so we don’t starve to death.”

Finally Julie weighed in, while clutching her new Barbie.

“Mommy, you could write a book about me. I’m very interesting.”  

Sigh.

In spite of their consensus that I should dump the damsels, I stubbornly stayed the course. 

The result was another batch of rejections. Before long the sight of mail trucks made me nauseous.

It was time to face cold hard facts; I wasn’t meant to be an author. Utterly defeated, I thought of my grandmother and wished I were more like her. She had a remarkable gift for story telling; inspired by a childhood spent on the farm.

Grandma was born in 1906, during a period when there was no texting or phoning. If people wanted to speak to each other it was done face to face, while milking cows, baking bread, beating rugs or feeding pigs. As they spun their yarns, relived ancestral lore and chattered on about a whole lot of nothing she was there; learning, laughing and drinking in each word. 

Over time, Grandma’s immediate family passed away. The words they’d spoken were her most precious inheritance; comforting and strengthening her as she faced the future without them.

When I was a little girl, she tried tempting me with bits and pieces of her memories. I was hooked from the start. The more she talked, the more I wanted to hear.

“I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree” Grandma chuckled.

Her words sent me back to another world where our pioneer ancestors claimed a wild, densely wooded frontier; risking everything for their dreams. Before a single seed could be planted, trees had to be cleared, a home built, and creeks dammed. It was an isolated, harsh existence with few neighbors, no doctors or nearby towns. Some would call them crazy, or foolish. Maybe they were a little of both. But one thing was certain. They were tough as nails.

“It’s important to know about the people you come from so you know the stuff you’re made of” she declared.  

Grandma’s voice was like a loom, weaving vibrant tapestries of her childhood; ladies wearing long voluminous dresses and enormous feathered hats, mustached men in three piece suits with bow ties and gold pocket watches, girls in large hair bows, and white pinafores, boys in knickers with croaking bullfrogs in their pockets. Barn dances, church picnics, and homemade toys magically sprang to life. I giggled hysterically as she imitated each person. Although those she described lived many decades earlier, I’d know them anywhere.

“I wish you could have seen Uncle Everett do that silly face” Grandma laughed.

But I did see it; three minutes earlier when she crossed her eyeballs and twisted her mouth into something resembling a flat tire. I doubt Uncle Everett could’ve done it better.

Years later when my daughter was born, I asked Grandma to record her memories. I wanted Julie to know what life was like long ago, as seen through the eyes of the one who had experienced it herself or known people who had. I wanted her to hear what had given me such pleasure.

But when Grandma gave me the tape, I put it in a drawer. It wasn't needed yet. She was still with us.

Two years after I gave up writing, Grandma passed away. Soon afterward I tried to listen to the tape but gave up. It was too painful.

Months later when life resumed a more normal rhythm, I tried again.

As Grandma’s voice washed over me, I felt like a fifty pound weight had been lifted from my heart. I giggled as she mimicked different characters just like the old days. I could feel her presence as she shared intimate details about each member of our spunky, colorful ancestors; who were a part of early American history, and far more intriguing than imaginary damsels in distress could ever be. Grandma had entrusted me with her inheritance. I wasn’t about to squander it.

Armed with new inspiration, I returned to the keyboard.

The resulting manuscript practically wrote itself. I finally discovered that my niche had been there all along; doing the back stroke in my gene pool.

So many blessings came from one little tape. New life was pumped into a writer’s shattered dream, which in turn allowed many others to delight in the simple beauty of Grandma’s world.  

It delights me that Julie is as passionate about our family legacy as I am.

“Mommy please tell me about Great Grandma’s pet pig and the goat that ate Aunt Edith’s shoe” she’d beg.

It was her favorite story. Mine too.

Once again, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

Michelle Close Mills ©