The abrasive words of Xochitl Gonzalez burn like salt in a wound that cannot heal. Writing for The Atlantic, she wrote, “I have been at parties with friends who are dancers, comedians, visual artists, and musicians. I have never heard anyone say to them, ‘I’ve always wanted to do that.’ Yet I can hardly meet a stranger without them sharing their unwritten novel dreams. They believe it remains unwritten not due to a lack of talent or skill, but merely a lack of time. But just as most can’t dance on pointe, most can’t write a novel. They forget that writing is an art.“
While driving home recently, I recounted to my spouse, Sandy Shupe, the need to write a book before I depart from this life for whatever comes next—a dream that has now been realized.
The drive to create has been with me for as long as I can remember. However, its origin remains a mystery. But as I’ve aged and my disabilities have taken a toll on my cognitive functions, the dream of writing a novel has become increasingly elusive. The daily struggle of living with C-PTSD, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and a Chiari brain malformation is overwhelming much of the time.
My intimate conversation with Sandy led her to reveal something for the first time, shaking me to my very core. Unlocking her inner thoughts and feelings is rare; she prefers to shroud herself in mystery. However, she disclosed her mother’s lifelong aspiration to write a book on that particular day.
After serving in the military, Sandy’s mother dedicated most of her life to working as a typist at Fort Knox, producing documents for the government. The disclosure of her plan to write a book someday seemed plausible, adding excitement to the conversation. However, the conversation suddenly took a dark and unsettling twist, leaving an uncomfortable silence.
Sandy next disclosed that her mother had secretly kept detailed notes for her writing project throughout her childhood. “She would never tell us anything other than she was going to write a book someday,” she shared. “We could never read them.”
Her mother passed away in 2004 after a battle with cancer.
My spouse then went on to describe how, after her mother’s death, she and her siblings frantically rummaged through every corner of the house, determined to find the book notes. But they had completely disappeared without a trace.
The mental images tormenting me were too inappropriate at that somber moment to put into spoken words and share with Sandy. Sitting in silence beside her in the passenger seat, my thoughts became consumed with mental pictures of Sandy’s mother, consumed by bitterness over her impending death. How did she get destroy the once precious writings, I pondered. Did she shred them? Did her mom crumple them up one by one and toss them into a fireplace in a fit of anger? Or did she unceremoniously place them into a garbage bag destined for a landfill? The truth will always remain a mystery. But one thing’s clear: her mother’s dream of writing a book died with her.
The “lack of time” that Xochitl Gonzalez spoke of so callously had run out for Sandy’s mother. It became a lifelong goal forever unattained. But that’s not the case for me. Last year, I shattered my belief that writing a novel was impossible because of my disabilities, proving that goals can be achieved against all odds. Unexpectedly, I discovered an artificial intelligence tool in a news article that became my lifeline to help me write long-form content.
Unlike Sandy’s mother, my dream of becoming a novelist didn’t die with me. OpenAI and ChatGPT brought it to life. For that gift, I am eternally grateful.