Writers--Listen to Your Heart

This is a repeat from several years ago. It still has merit and is perfect for this Valentine week

A good many years ago, I submitted to a Chicken Soup for the Soul book for the first time. The story was a simple one, a childhood memory, that I thought might work for the Fathers and Daughters book. Maybe.

I hesitated to send it. Why? My pride told me it was impossible because rejection hurts a lot. Experience added that I hadn't been writing very long, and the Chicken Soup editors received hundreds, maybe even a thousand or more, submissions for each book. My chances were pretty slim. Reason stepped in and sneered at me as it said it was pointless to submit this story. What would it matter to the rest of the world? Then they laughed and I whimpered.

All three had ganged up on me, and then a funny thing happened. My heart whispered softly in my ear. Your story is something others can relate to. Go ahead and give it a try. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. I pushed pride, experience and reason out the door. I liked what my heart told me.

I sent the story. Many months later, I received a notice that the story had made it to the finals. My heart did a happy dance. I waited a few weeks longer before learning that the story had made it into the book. What a thrill to hold the published book in my hand a few months later.

That story was "Love In A Box"  which is about a Valentine box my dad made for me when I was in the second grade. At age seven, I suddenly realized that my hardworking father truly loved me. That fact came as a startling discovery, one that left a life-long impression on me. Apparently, readers related to it and responded positively, so much so that the story has been published multiple times in English and some foreign languages.

What if I hadn't listened to my heart? What if I'd let those three bullies push me into a corner? Have you ever had a project that you wanted to submit somewhere but held back for one or more of the reasons above? What kept you from sending it? Were those three bullies---pride, experience and reason--invading your space, too?

Don't let them push you around. Remind yourself that you wrote a good story or poem or essay and that it deserves a chance. Get the submission ready, hit the Submit button and laugh at the three bullies. Listen to your heart. Your heart knows you better than those three twerps who try to place blocks in your way.

Remember this:  If you don't submit, you cannot be published.

My story Love in a Box is below.       

When I was a little girl, I found love in a box all because of a class assignment. On a Friday night I made an announcement at the dinner table. The words bubbled out in a torrent of excitement I could no longer contain. “My teacher said we have to bring a box for our Valentines on Monday. But it has to be a special box all decorated.”

Mother said, “We’ll see,” and she continued eating.

I wilted faster than a flower with no water. What did “We’ll see” mean? I had to have that box, or there would be no Valentines for me. My second grade Valentine’s Day would be a disaster. Maybe they didn’t love me enough to help me with my project.

All day Saturday I waited, and I worried, but there was no mention of a Valentine box. Sunday arrived, and my concern increased, but I knew an inquiry about the box might trigger anger and loud voices. I kept an anxious eye on both my parents all day. In 1947, children only asked once. More than that invited punitive measures; at least in my house it 

Late Sunday afternoon, my father called me into the tiny kitchen of our apartment. The table was covered with an assortment of white crepe paper, red construction paper, and bits and pieces of lace and ribbon from my mother’s sewing basket. An empty shoebox rested on top of the paper. Relief flooded through me when Daddy said, “Let’s get started on your project.”

In the next hour, my father transformed the empty shoebox into a valentine box I would never forget. Crepe paper covered the ugly cardboard. My father fashioned a ruffled piece of the pliable paper and glued it around the middle. He cut a slot in the lid and covered it with more of the white paper. Next came red hearts attached in what I considered all the right places. He hummed a tune while he worked, and I kneeled on my chair witnessing the magical conversion of the shoebox and handing him the glue when he needed it. When he finished, my father’s eyes sparkled, and a smile stretched across his thin face. “What do you think of that?”

My answer was a hug and a “Thank you, Daddy.”

Inside, joy danced all the way to my heart. It was the first time that my father devoted so much time to me. His world consisted of working hard to support his family, adoring my mother, disciplining my brother and me, and listening to every sports event broadcast on the radio. Suddenly, a new door opened in my life. My father loved me.

Monday morning, my mother found a brown grocery sack to protect the beautiful box while I carried it to school. I barely felt the bitter cold of the February day as I held the precious treasure close to me. I would let no harm come to my special Valentine box.

My teacher cleared a space on a long, wide windowsill where the decorated boxes would stay until Valentine’s Day. I studied each one as it was placed on the sill, and none compared with mine. Every time I peeked at my Valentine box, I felt my father’s love. My pride knew no bounds. There were moments when the box actually glowed in a spotlight all its own. No doubt the only one who witnessed that glow was me.

Every day some of my classmates brought Valentine cards to school and slipped them into the slots of the special boxes. The holiday party arrived, and we brought our boxes to our desks to open the Valentines. Frosted heart cookies, red punch, Valentines and giggles filled our classroom. Chaos reigned until dismissal time arrived.

I carried my Valentine box home proudly. It wasn’t hidden in a grocery sack but held out for the world to admire. I showed it to the policeman who guided us across a busy city street. He patted me on the head and exclaimed over the box. I made sure everyone along the way took note of my Valentine box. My father had made it for me, and the love that filled the box meant more to me than all the valentines nestled inside.

From that time on, I never doubted my father’s feelings for me. The valentine box became a symbol of his love that lasted through decades of other Valentine Days. He gave me other gifts through the years, but none ever compared with the tender love I felt within the confines of the old, empty shoe box.

Originally published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Dads and Daughters book