A few of them nod, understanding.
“Someone once told me, ‘If it were easy, everyone would doit.’ That’s to say, do the hard thing, go beyond where the average person goes, refine your skills, do it even when you’re tired, discouraged, or scared, and more than likely you’ll be rewarded.”
One of the kids shouts about having their name on the Stanley Cup one day.
I don’t want to burst their bubble, but it’s statistically unlikely that they’ll all achieve that goal. So I say, “That would be cool, but also know that trophies aren’t the only rewards. When you build competence and skill in one area, it gives you the confidence to do other things that might seem challenging to most. So while it’s possible that not all of you will become NHL players, by giving your all here, you’ll be able to apply the same amount of commitment to whatever you do.”
They nod, picking up what I’m putting down, possibly encouraged, and definitely itching to start moving again. I slide to the boards and stumble back onto the spectators’ side of the rink.
Despite my writer’s block, I understand what Fletch must’ve seen in me. Even though my passion for writing was becoming a challenge, I didn’t let it turn into a roadblock. I kept going, even if that meant taking a detour or two.
After the session ends, most kids hurry off to waiting parents, but one girl lingers, shuffling her feet nervously near the bench where I sit.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Turley? I was wondering ...”
I look around, not sure who she’s talking to, but her eyes land on me. Oh, right. Me. Mrs. Turley. Fletch’s wife. How could I forget? It could be that we didn’t have a proper wedding. I don’t have a ring. I didn’t technically say, “I do.”
The girl asks, “How did you know you wanted to be a writer?” Her voice is barely audible.
The question catches me off guard. “I didn’t,at first.”
“So you didn’t want to write since you were a little kid?”
I shake my head. “Nope. But I loved stories.” I tell her about my many hours spent at the library.
She nods solemnly. “I write, too. But my dad says it’s not a real career.”
Something in her hesitant demeanor and the way she clutches her notebook strikes a chord. I recognize myself in her—the uncertainty, the longing to create despite doubts. “Mine either. He was an engineer. My mom still thinks it’s superfluous.”
Her eyes twinkle at my use of that word—she knows exactly what I’m talking about. I sense a kindred spirit, reminding me of one of my favorite childhood books about a spunky girl named Anne with red hair, who lived in a small town and the boy who teased her.
“Yet here I am. What I was saying out there about the mental game is true when you have doubts, but also when the people in your life cause you to second-guess what you’re doing. Sometimes you have to push past it … or like Fletch with that puck, you just shoot your shot.”
She bites her lip as if unsure.
“I’ve heard on good authority that hockey romance is hot right now. I write historical westerns, but the genre could be a fun place to start, considering your experience out there.” I jut my chin toward the ice.
Her gaze drifts to a boy removing his skates and her cheeks warm.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Emma.”
“Well, Emma, storytelling started nearly at the beginning of time and writing is one of the most long-standing professions in the world. It’s how we preserve the past, our personal histories,share our ideas, and understand each other better. Whether you become an author or not, it’s a worthy pursuit.”
Her face brightens. “Would you maybe look at something I wrote sometime?”
“I’d be honored,” I say, and mean it as a tiny idea forms about hosting a creative writing workshop at the library in the future. Well, wherever I end up living.
Fletch appears beside us, gear bag slung over his shoulder. “Making friends?”
“Emma is a writer,” I tell him.
“Creative people always find each other.” He clicks his tongue.
And in fiction, so do the people who are meant to be together.
On the drive home, Fletch makes an unexpected detour to the tree lot we visited last week.
