But I am telling you now, because the words are ink on a page, solid and strong. I feared that if I even whispered, it would disappear, or perhaps not have happened at all but in my mind. For a while, I ached with the knowing and the not telling, but then the excitement faded and I almost forgot about it. Almost.
I cannot remember a time when I did not lug a book or three with every step, when I did not grasp pen in hand to scribble words across the page, when I did not fall asleep with stories splashing through the dark lake behind my eyes. In second grade I wrote of a chef who poisoned his king. In high school, I wrote of girl who lost herself in the trees, but found instead someone else she could be on the other side of the forest. It was crap that I wrote, all of it. But I kept reading and writing and dreaming secret dreams.
No one read my stories, of course, since I never let them roam beyond my battered notebooks. It has only been here, at my blog, that any of my writing has squeaked free. It hasn't been much ~ it's wrenching to thrust your naked mind and soul onto an ephemeral plain that might spit it back at you with anonymous animosity.
But one story has clambered to freedom. And it isn't crap.
Kaitlyn was the one who mentioned her friend was searching for stories - knitting stories in particular, and, even more specific, knitting tales of endurance, or of hope, or of survival, of getting through and getting by. And a little dream scrambled around in my head until I released it to thrive on paper and ink.
I held my breath and closed my eyes and sent my story into the world. It returned to me wounded, scratched deep and red, and yet not as mutilated as I'd feared. It was a strong little dream, for all its protests. I patched it up and sent it out again. And that time, it thrived.
It is out there now, in the world, playing its part as a little piece of someone else's dream too. I can tell you my secret because it happened. It isn't a dream any more. My story is published. In a real, live book. I waited to tell you until I held it in my hands. I can run my fingers over words on a bound page, my own words, my own story.
My story is, literally, "The Castle of Our Dreams" and it is one of the essays in the book Knitting Through It, edited by Lela Nargi. I'm sticking a picture of it over there on the sidelines, too. Now that the secret is out, you'll be seeing it there for a very long time.
Or you can go to an actual book store and buy it. If they don't have it in stock yet, you can demand that they order a thousand copies immediately.
Go take a look. It is just a short story. But it is mine. And it makes me very, very happy.