Do you remember being a kid during the summer? Growing up in Southern California, I was fortunate enough to have a neighbor with a pool. Ah, the greatest moment on a hot July day was the chance to jump into the cold waters. It was open to everyone…except for the deep end.
No, that was the “big kid’s” part of the pool. That taboo, off-limits place that me in my little seven-year-old body didn’t quite get. The water was all the same, I thought. What made the water under the diving board somehow more special than the water by the steps. So my toes didn’t reach the bottom. Hell, they barely reached the bottom in the shallow end, so what did that matter anyway, right? I mean, how are you supposed to know if you’re big enough for the deep end if you don’t jump in?
I was a decent swimmer, but more importantly, I was stubborn and hated to be told that some things were out of my reach because of my size, my age, my experience or my gender. I conquered the deep end much sooner than I was expected to.
Now, I find that once again, the deep end has reared its ugly head. But this big kid’s pool is in the world, namely the world that is the life of an author. Here, I get told I can’t play on with certain people because I’m still too little. Not enough books, not enough friends, not enough.
I wonder if those people were told they weren’t enough. Probably not.