Ten years ago author CeCe Bell looked me in the eyes and told me to write my own story. At the time I was a student of Hollins University’s MFA in Children’s Literature program. One of the great advantages of my time there was meeting the incredible guests who would agree to speak, conduct workshops, and/or critique excerpts of works in progress. I will forever be grateful for that magical place.

After her speech on creating her autobiographical graphic novel El Deafo, Bell patiently sat at a table and spoke to each student lined up for her autograph and a quick chat. She could read our lips quite well, and requested we write our names on a sticky note so when she signed our books she didn’t have to worry about spelling. Genius request.

I was the last student and hurriedly asked her if I should write a graphic novel like hers about my three legally-blind sisters. I had expected something along the lines of what all students heard: If you are inspired to write it, write it! Instead she questioned me thoroughly, trying to wrap her head around this genetic disease that deteriorated three of my sisters’ visions and left me untouched.

CeCe Bell did not tell me to please write a story from their perspective. She did not encourage me to use my budding talent to speak for them. She held my gaze and said, “Write YOUR story.”

I left the building to cry into the listening summer night.

With enthusiasm I plunged into a semester designed to be small, only about five students per class with a professor determined to extricate a working draft out of us that could turn into our thesis in another semester. Six gruelling weeks of writing and rewriting and editing and critiquing the other students’ works at the same time.

I saw my future: The next New York Times Best Seller after six weeks! Of course a sibling grappling with survivor’s guilt would land me a contract.

That gusto quickly deflated as I wrote and rewrote and re-rewrote and started again the first chapter of my book.

To the point where the unflappable Claudia Mills, my darling professor whom I cherish, kindly but firmly told me to MOVE ON from the first chapter! Echoed emphatically by the unanimous exasperation of the other students.

It’s been ten years.

I actually did move on. I wrote a full YA novella about what happened, including some poetry. I wrote it and let some people read it. And, bless them all, they loved it. I even submitted it ONCE. But it was (obviously) rejected. The story severely lacked je ne sais quoi.

Now, I am forty years old; still thinking about this story that needs to be written – if only for myself.

I could tell you all the obstacles I faced up to this point. What age group am I writing for? How auto-biographical do I make this? Where do I begin? Where do I end? How am I supposed to capture the struggles they had in a world where today’s technology simply did not exist?

How do I write a compelling story that so neatly falls upon Freytag’s Pyramid and captures the hearts and minds of my readers in one fell swoop?

What I have finally come to accept is simple: I cannot. Life is not a pretty pyramid; it is a jagged mountain range. There are victorious ups where the scenery is breath-taking and there are vicious depths where souls are lost. There are caves that provide warmth and caves that wander into depths better left to darkness.

I believe one day I will be able to write that picture book, that YA novel, that chapter book with all the correct beats paced perfectly to a beautiful crescendo of insight. The book professors will reference for its symbolism and refreshing commentary on the unfairness of life.

But before I get there.

Before I can map that dream story.

I must tell mine in all its jagged imperfection. I must relinquish control over my impact on my reader by substituting dramatized scenes of poignant SYMBOLISM with quiet reflections of truth.

I must remove the rose colored lens of me being the beloved protagonist thrust unblemished into a cruel black-and-white world, virtuously raging against an obviously evil enemy.

After all … hindsight is 20/20.