Early twenties, fresh out of a British graduate school for acting, back home working as a hostess for a local resort restaurant (but of course), gathering my finances-what-finances as I prepared for a move down the coast to Hollywood—I met 2 novelists. They were elderly-ish friends of my mom’s. I knew they were coming to the restaurant and I was excited to meet them, my writing as important to me as my acting. This couple had two published novels between them, making them, for me, rock stars.
I seated them at the best table in the house, handed them menus and introduced myself: “I’m Sandy’s daughter!”
“Oh!” they said, delighted, and asked about my mom and then I asked: “Do you have any advice for me?” They looked at me blankly because my mom had not told them I was a writer (my mom, my mom, my mom). “Poet and fiction writer,” I said, eager to make a first professional writing-connection and I told them about my one publication–a poem in a super-slim journal called something like, UP AGAINST THE FEMINIST WALLS: POEMS BY WOMEN (I’m not kidding).
The couple exchanged frowns. And then they frowned at me.
“Don’t,” they advised, as though I’d confessed I was donating my brain to science, effective immediately. “Oh god, no,” they said. “Don’t write. Just don’t.”
We blinked at each other until the waiter arrived. I mumbled, “Okey doke, then!” and fled to the resorty restroom, staring into wall-to-wall mirrors above marbled sinks, mouthing expressions of confusion, such as: WTF!
Years later, I had the wife-novelist as a workshop leader at a writers conference. I didn’t choose her workshop, it was assigned to me–for the week. The first session, she gave sound advice and offered helpful critique to those who volunteered their work. She didn’t remember me.
I ditched the conference as soon as the workshop was over, drove home to my little Los Feliz apartment and wrote my heart out until 3a.m., fingers banging keys.
I get it: Acting and writing come with rejection.
I get it: The novelist couple thought they were doing me a favor.
But I would never crush a young person’s dreams, no matter all of my rejections, or acceptances.
What I wish the couple had said: Send us your work! Keep in touch! The brain is a muscle! Follow your insticts! Experience Life! The world needs writers!
Told it to myself instead.
Still do.
PB
PB Rippey Writes 
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