by Guilie
Castillo-Oriard
In
2011 I quit my job in the financial industry to “be a writer,” and everyone
thought I’d gone mad. “Burnout,” they whispered.
In
all honesty, they weren’t that far off; six years of twelve-hour days does take
a toll. But, appearances notwithstanding, this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment
thing. None of my colleagues—no one here in Curaçao, only a scant few in
Mexico—had any way of knowing that my journey into writing had begun three
decades earlier (and would, in fact, involve actual travel).
The
very first thing I wrote was a Christmas story. I was eight. It was a school
competition of some sort. I can’t remember the plot (and I admit to a certain
amount of relief there are no surviving copies), but it involved a family of
swallows (and, probably, much gratuitous heart-string pulling). No one was more
surprised than me when I received the first prize; I remember feeling an
embarrassed sort of exhilaration as I stepped up to the podium to accept—what
was it? a certificate, a piece of paper long lost and forgotten, never framed
or showcased in any way. No need; the moment had been enough. At the tender age
of eight I had been marked, taken in ownership by the white-hot branding iron
of storytelling success, and there was no turning back.
They liked what I wrote.
Storytelling
was my gateway. For a very long time, writing, for me, would be about telling a
story. It would take me years to discover language—the power of putting words
together just so, so that, all of a
sudden and (best of all) without warning, the alchemy of meaning sparks into
life. But back then it was the sorcery of disappearing into make-believe that hooked
me.
I
ransacked my father’s extensive library; I read everything, books as
diametrically varied as Don Quixote
and Emmanuelle II. I read history and
fantasy and cheap novels and Hemingway and Sartre. I stayed up late with a
flashlight under the covers. Teachers confiscated the books I hid between lap
and desk.
And
I wrote and wrote: diaries, journals, endless ‘novels’ that never made it past
Chapter 3. I wanted to tell stories, stories like the ones I was reading,
stories that would make people laugh and cry and feel… but I had no one around to tell me the magic wasn’t in the
telling but in the constructing. No
one, except the books themselves. And I fell so deeply into the thrall of the
stories that I forgot to—didn’t even think
to—analyze structure, arcs, character development, management of backstory,
nuances of plot; the stories I read worked (mostly), the ones I wrote didn’t
(mostly), and I knew it. I just didn’t know enough to see why.
And
then…
Do
you remember that time, long, long ago, when phone lines could ‘cross’ and
you’d find yourself listening to someone else’s conversation? One day, when I
was maybe eighteen, I was talking to someone and suddenly I was talking to
someone else. My call had dropped, this guy’s call had dropped, and—because
life works in mysterious ways—we struck up a conversation. When I had to go,
Ernesto—that was his name—asked if he could call me again. Why not, I said. I’ll need
your number, though, he said.
He
called every few days, and we talked—and talked, and talked. My writing must
have come up at some point, though I have no memory of what I said or what he
asked, because about a year later—we still hadn’t met, although we lived in the
same city—he called with a mission. “A friend of mine is starting a writers’
group,” he said. “I told him about you, and he’d really like to meet you.”
Yes,
of course I went—got to meet Ernesto, too—and landed smack in the center of a
budding writer’s dream: I found myself a member of a group of young adults
(‘teenagers’ sounds so amateurish) who started the city’s first literary
magazine. It was called Tinta Seca
(‘Dry Ink’ in Spanish), and it put out its last issue in February 2015.
I
was only part of it for maybe three years—but they were glorious years. I was
in print! I sat at the big-people table the day the magazine was launched. I
got to read one of my poems (at a microphone!) to an audience of literati and
press with clicking cameras. I was consulted for content and layout issues. I
met artists I’d only seen in museums, authors I’d only seen in print. And, less
ego-stroking but more edifying, I had an assembly of like-minded individuals
(read geeks) to provide example and
stimulation. I began straying from the ‘mainstream’ into the uncharted realm of
possibility. None of my experiments earned recognition (nor did they deserve
to)—but who cared? I had discovered the
craft.
It
wasn’t meant to be, though. Not then. Not yet. My father died, and with him the
bubble of financial security I’d lived in until then. College was out of the
question; I had to earn a living, I had to do it now, and I couldn’t do it via
writing. And so began the two fallow decades of write-less existence. I didn’t
abandon the dream, I just postponed it: one day, when I retired, I would write.
And
then…
Travel.
And with travel came the stories—and the urge, again, to tell them. Yes, I do
hold Curaçao responsible for my return to writing. I came to the island
originally for six months; that was thirteen years ago. Why did I stay? Because something here—the diversity?
the contrasts? burnout?—provoked in me not just a rekindling of the
storytelling monkey but the carpe diem
understanding that stories, like dreams, wait for no one.
________________________________________
Guilie Castillo-Oriard is a Mexican writer
and dog rescuer living in Curaçao. She misses Mexican food and Mexican amabilidad, but the island’s diversity
and the laissez-faire attitude (and the beaches) are fair exchange. Her work
has appeared online and in print. Her first book, The Miracle of Small Things, was published
in August 2015 by Truth Serum Press. She blogs about life and writing at Quiet Laughter and about
life and dogs at Life In Dogs.
6 comments:
Thank you so much for making me a part of your JOURNEY series, Gay. It truly is an honor.
Guilie @ Quiet Laughter
What a brave move to quit your job and follow your dream! Thanks for sharing your inspiring journey, Guilie. Congratulations on your success! I quit writing in the 70s (too many rejections, needed to earn a living, etc.) and am thankful to the internet for returning my muse.
Thanks Guilie for writing about your wonderful journey and thank you Debbie D. for reading. Debbie, I too found my muse because of the internet!!!
Guilie -Wonderful reading about your journey.
Sounds like your burnout was the best thing to have happened! A journey filled with so many pleasant and fortunate surprises can only mean greater success down the road - Write On, Guillie!
Thanks for sharing such an inspiring post, Gay. I'll surely be back :-)
Debbie, Paul, Diedre — thank you so much for your comments! And to everyone who's come by to read... really, really appreciate it. Gay, once again thank you so much for having me over. It's an honor to share my journey with your audience.
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