Kill Your Dragons

A guest essay by Lauren McGovern about a teen writing competition and a life of writing

This essay by Lauren McGovern touched me profoundly. So many of us at midlife have experienced writing as an important part of our experience throughout our lives but sometimes struggle to call ourselves writers.

Do you see yourself in any of Lauren’s story?

-Jessica

Avon/Flare launched their first Young Adult novel competition—books by teenagers for teenagers—in 1983. I grabbed the nearest pen. I dreamed of winning the $5,000 prize, getting my manuscript published, and becoming an instant celebrity in my hometown, a place teeming with orchards and dairy farms. Take that, apple country! Bye-bye, cows!

My mom, a stenographer, worked at the typewriter for hours, getting my handwritten legal pads into an admirable 108 pages, word for word. She didn't change a thing. My father, a veteran high school English teacher even then, gave me tips for character development and suggestions for smoother dialogue. I chose to ignore him.

At 14, I’d written what I did not know.

The story about a young girl, Laura, beat up by her older brother, Matty, and Laura’s friendship/crush on the neighbor, Steve, against the backdrop of a recently dead father and preoccupied mother, bore no resemblance to my life as the oldest of four on a hobby farm, a solitary house on a long rural road we thought belonged only to us. I spent all my time babysitting, riding the horse, and buying stickers, sweaters, and a gumball machine at the mall. I volunteered at the public library, reading picture books to toddlers, attended a lot of school dances, and logged hours of religion education classes. If anything got beat up, it was my copy of The Outsiders.

I thought I was a brilliant, undiscovered star.

I envisioned the author photo—with one of the dogs? Milking the goats? Sitting on the split-rail fence, wind blowing my hair? A wintry shot instead?

After I’d kissed my masterpiece and handed it over for postage, I started spending my winnings. I daydreamed about an exasperated judge, surrounded by piles of mediocrity, standing and waving others over to bask in the glow of my prose, deciding then and there to call me in the middle of my allotted thirty minutes of TV, or even better, interrupting homework.

Photo by Mikaela Wiedenhoff on Unsplash

In the end, I got a form letter thanking me for my hard work and the courage to enter.

The editors sang the praises of Lee J. Hindle's vivid and riveting tale of suspense entitled Dragon Fall. The main character, 17-year-old Gabe, fights for his life (after coming home from a rock concert) when the monster sculptures he’s created for a toy company turn into dangerous beasts.

My teenaged self thought it was completely unfair and illogical for an adult (Hindle was 18 when he won, 19 when the book printed) from Canada (Did writers exist there?) to see his book published and become a well-known, bestselling author. I sighed. I moped. I sobbed into Miss Dakota’s mane.

And now? I am guessing the judges thought a YA fantasy novel about a boy with magical powers and demons bent on destroying him was, well,…novel for the time. They’d decided to amplify Hindle’s narrative instead of the heteronormative stories where the hot jock finally notices how cute his BFF looks without her glasses or the poorly executed dysfunctional family dramas.

According to my yellowed paperback copy, Hindle beat out 549 competitors.

He told Boys’ Life in April 1985 he hadn’t considered himself a novelist, but admired sci-fi giant Ray Bradbury and thought writing might be fun to try someday. When he heard about the contest, he worked for three weeks straight, ultimately sending off 109 pages to meet the deadline. He graduated from high school, describing himself as a people-person, an ideal match for the writing life. He was working on a number of short stories, a second novel, and turning Dragon Fall into a screenplay in case Hollywood came knocking.

We could’ve been pen pals, had I set aside my jealousy to bridge a connection. I churned out angsty poetry, short stories featuring my twenty closest friends, and dense plays. My high school launched The Works, and I contributed as much as they’d allow. Eventually, I left for college, edited our student newspaper, wrote an occasional humor piece or profile, and life continued to unfold. I turned it all into something someone wanted to print: the first post-college job, the first date in New York City, marriage in the mountains and buying a fixer-upper. I never strayed too far from writing, stuffing freelance gigs into the cracks between kids and career, scribbling notes for essays about dogs and spelling bees and Johnny Cash, reviews of all the books I read while breastfeeding.

We fixed up the house. It emptied out. We all got to choose our own global trauma adventure, but the doors were usually locked and “adventure” is mostly the wrong word.

And then, I made space for writing what I know now. The small oak desk, tucked into a corner of the bedroom we cleared out and rearranged after our teen son died, fits beneath a narrow window. When I raise the insulated shade, I can see the wide path my husband mowed, following the rise of the hill, a moss-covered boulder marking the top before it slopes down into dense jack pines, spruce, and scrub bushes. I published new work in lit mags about the wildfire named “suicide” that ripped through the front yard. Like many scorched landscapes, new growth emerges, visible in a fresh ribbon of sunlight.

I did not win the novel competition. I did become a writer. I am neither famous nor rich, but I’m not invisible. I’m still here. Lee, I hope you’re crafting away, too. You were good.

Lauren McGovern lives in the Adirondacks of northern New York State. Her essays and hybrid work have appeared in What’s Your Grief, The Brooklyn Review, Oh Reader, Gordon Square Review, MUTHA Magazine, The Razor, and elsewhere. laurenmcgovern.online.