Becoming My Own Protagonist

How I Developmentally Edited My Life to Live My Dream

I used to be married to a person who didn’t like me, despite his assertions that he did. He had an idea of who I should have been, an idea he’d constructed from pure fantasy: the high-school-sweetheart-turned-wife who dressed up as arm candy to celebrate her husband’s accomplishments and pat him on the back while grinning ear to ever-loving ear.

A Stepford Wife.

One evening, while my husband watched the national news, I pulled out my laptop, opened a fresh Word document, and set out to write the novel I had wanted to write for years but never had the guts to start.

But the words didn’t flow. I considered whether I could actually be a writer, and I told my husband what I was thinking.

He sneered, told me my dreams were just that—dreams. They weren’t reality, couldn’t be achieved, and any pursuit of them was time wasted. Instead, I should be thankful to climb the soulless corporate ladder, push out half a dozen screaming children on his time, and forget that I ever had passions of my own.

“Quit while you’re ahead,” he’d said.

Yet, I wrote because there was no other choice for me.

The draft was messy and unfocused and opened with a horrific car accident, resulting in a fatality that needed to be processed. In hindsight, it was probably a way for me to end my marriage in fiction, but I digress.

At the heart of the story was the importance of setting goals, pursuing dreams. For writing was an act of defiance, something only for me. Something my husband refused to understand or acknowledge as an essential part of who I was. Who I still am.

He derided the time I spent with my horrid story, set out to make me feel guilty for not kowtowing to his version of mindless evening entertainment in front of the tube. Still, I offered chapters to him in good faith. “Read these, please!”

The message fell flat, his response always that I’d never be published, so there was no sense in reading rubbish.

Warm. And. Fuzzy.

While my husband drowned himself in the evening news and typed furiously into his phone to “yes, and!” with his circle-jerk of political allies, I reached out to a friend of mine who I knew was having similar grumbles in his marriage to a woman who didn’t seem to like him either. He was also a creative person, one who celebrated the arts and their importance. And he didn’t hesitate to say ‘yes’ when I asked him to read a bit of what I’d written and tell me how terrible it was.

But he didn’t think it was terrible, didn’t tell me to stop writing. Much to my surprise, he liked it.

Then he asked for the next chapter.

And so I continued to write. I shared each new chapter of the in-progress novel with my friend, who read each one within 24 hours and helped me stay motivated to write.

Since my husband refused to take part in anything of interest to me, I began planning my own activities and adventures.

I leaned into fiction, both reading and writing. I continued to edit a few books on nights and weekends, something he couldn’t snub his nose at because it brought home cash. I went to Comic-Con, even modeled for a friend and comic book artist who was drawing fight scenes for an exciting comic book with a strong female lead.

With each new thing I did for myself, I gained a bit of confidence. And with each new thing, I brought my excitement to my husband, who shot me down. Then I stopped sharing anything about my life with him at all. We were two roommates co-existing in a shared space.

Much to my surprise, after months of barely speaking to me, my husband asked to read the novel I had been working on. For a moment, I considered sharing. But the moment passed when I realized he’d only asked to share in my joy when the air in our house smelled of endings.

Too little too late.

I presented divorce papers not long after.

Even under decent circumstances, divorce isn’t easy. It’s expensive and emotionally draining. For my mental health and wellbeing, I put down my story while I transitioned out of the house I never wanted to buy in a town I never wanted to live in.

A studio the size of a shoebox held a globe’s worth of possibilities. It spoke to me of freedom. But because I was still paying half a mortgage while paying rent on a salary never intended to cover both (a condition of the divorce, since I was “the one who screwed up everything and left), I was exhausted, stressed, and feeling lost in the creativity department.

Though I opened my laptop several times, I never found the flow and rhythm of the writing I had enjoyed so much, the writing that had helped me keep some of me while my life was in a state of turmoil split between two homes. Despite everything I had done for myself, I felt like a failure.

Who was I kidding? I wasn’t a writer. I couldn’t write under pressure, couldn’t find the spark of creativity. And couldn’t all real writers persist despite their challenges?

On a quiet night, I opened my laptop again, pulled up the working manuscript, and read through what I’d written. Then I realized something: the story I’d started writing wasn’t the one I needed to write.

Sure, I’d needed that story once, but that need was largely due to a marriage that never should have been. I trashed the draft manuscript, all 40,000 words of it.

While it took a few years to get back on my feet and regain creative confidence, figure out my stride, and work through my passions, I learned that denying myself my dreams was never the right answer for me.

I could never settle for a status quo that fit like a too-short pair of tights. (If you’ve ever waddled in tights because the crotch is down around your knees, you know what I mean.)

A few years after quitting my marriage, I quit that corporate job, too. And you know what? I’m happy.

For the first time in years, I feel competent, confident, and purposeful. And that friend who helped me stay motivated? He’s now my partner and the father of my child.

In June this year, my first officially accepted fiction piece will be published in Flash Fiction Magazine.

I’m working with amazing writers to develop their stories and hone their crafts.

I’m currently drafting a new novel, one that excites me.

I’m living my dream.

So, keep dreaming, y’all. I’ll see you on the other side.

❤ Fallon