Jaye Wells

While cleaning out my office last weekend, I found something interesting. It seems I had completely forgotten that I once published a nonfiction book.

Lyndon Baines Johnson: From the Pedernales to the Potomac is an insightful portrait of the 36th president of these United States. The lovely hardbound edition is wrapped in a gorgeous red pebbled faux leather. The title and my name are embossed in gold foil. The pen and ink drawings were carefully crafted by yours truly.

Sadly, only one copy of this masterpiece exists. You see, I wrote it in my fifth grade Talented and Gifted class. After months of research, I wrote my book by hand using a ruler and a black felt pen. You can still see the pencil lines that I seemed to have disregarded because there is nary a straight line of text to be found. My penmanship was exquisite–naive, loopy fifth-grade cursive. My teacher, Mrs. Millicans, took the books my classmates and I wrote to a local printer for binding.

I vaguely recall the day we got the books back. Innocent pride bloomed within me. I was a writer, and I now had the goods to prove it.

Looking at the book the other day, I couldn’t help but smile. Memories sprung up. How my dad helped me come up with the title. Sitting in the public library, carefully documenting my findings on white notecards. The indention on my right middle finger from gripping the pen.

And I remembered other things I’d written through the years. The book of poetry I’d written that same year(also in the TAG class), which I bound between two pieces of cardboard and covered in red and white checked shelf paper. The novel I started on my own when I was eleven. It was titled For the Love of Children, a kid lit book about an orphan girl struggling through puberty–Little Orphan Annie meets Judy Blume. I think I abandoned that one in the early stages though, and when I say early stages I mean page one. I recalled the essays I wrote in college, angsty treatises about love and betrayal. Also, poetry about–you guessed it–love and betrayal. I remembered the boxes full of spiral notebooks, each filled with essays, poetry, short stories, book ideas, etc. All of these examples were signs that writing was my true path.

It took me until I turned 30 to embrace this calling. For some reason, I had dismissed all of these past writing experiences. But no more.

My name is Jaye and I am a writer. I may not have a publishing contract or an agent. I might not give workshops on craft or be well-known in the industry. That doesn’t matter. I write, therefore I am.

The only question that remains is: Can I use my Lyndon Johnson book as a pub credit on my query letters?