Vanessa Williams Syndrome

"Vanessa Williams Syndrome"
by
Cher Gorman

Something happened to me this week, something discouraging, heart-breaking and confidence flattening. I found out my latest wip is worse than my last one. J Some joke huh?

Then Diana asked me to write an article about how we as writers keep going when brick walls are thrown in our path or a boulder comes rolling unexpectedly down the side of a hill. So, as I sit here and write this I'm wondering what the answer is. Maybe you can help me figure it out. I think I'll call it the "Vanessa Williams Syndrome." We all know her courageous and triumphant story, right?

Here is a lady who is suddenly crowned Miss America with all the glory and accolades that go along with that honor. Then some sleazy, dirt bag reporter discovers that she had some compromising pictures taken when she was young and foolish. Of course, when the pageant officials found out about them they gasped behind their pinkies, snatched the crown from her head and kicked her from the penthouse all the way down to the basement where they proceeded to nail the door shut. But instead of staying in the basement, she yanked the nails out of the door and kicked it down. Then she clawed her way back up to the penthouse, threw everybody out and ordered a case of champagne! Or something like that.

At the moment, I'm back down here in the basement. Again. I had made it up to the lobby and was half-way to the mezzanine when I got booted back down again. For the last couple of days my chin has been dragging the floor and I've entertained thoughts of tossing my computer into the garbage. But I settled for purging the files from my word processor instead. Now what do I do?

While sitting here among the black beetles, I see a rusty toolbox. I get up off the floor, go over and lift the lid. Viola! There is a crowbar, a wrench and a couple of old screwdrivers in there. I grab the crowbar, walk over to the door and start trying to pry out those nails. After a few minutes I'm exhausted, dirty and hungry so I dig into the sack lunch they tossed in after me.

While I'm eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich I notice a fresh, white sheet of paper sitting on top of an old dusty desk. I walk over, pick up the note and hold it in the faint stream of light from the basement's one grimy window. The note says that "no writer is a failure who has courage enough not to quit."

I sigh deeply, blink away the tears pooling in my eyes, put the note back on the table and head for the door. After a long, grueling time of hacking away with the crowbar, removing the screws from the hinges and yanking the hardware out of the wall with the wrench, I turn my head and cast one last fond look at the sheet of paper on the desk. The sun is rising now and a puddle of dawn's new light rests on the surface of the paper. I smile, turn back to the door and wipe my brow.

Then I lift both hands and shove hard. The door falls over in a cloud of dirt and dust. I brush the dirt from my hands, walk over the fallen door and begin the journey to the penthouse once again.

Will I make it this time? I don't know. The odds at the moment are against me but I remember the note written on a piece of paper still fresh, still white and clean even after all the time in that dark hole. The author was right. I won't be a failure if I have the courage not to quit. I smile to myself, give my head a cocky shake and think maybe, if I work hard enough and don't lose faith I'll get lucky. You'll be the first to know if I make it. I hear the view is spectacular!

Cher Gorman writes long contemporary romance, is one of the unpublished who hopes to claw her way out of the basement one day. She has completed five novels and is actively working to improve her craft.