Invisible Ink

When I was a child, I had a fascination with the trick of invisible or disappearing ink. It was a thrill, not to mention somewhat empowering, to be able to write something that no one else could read unless I gave them the ability. Of course, the various tricks had their limits, but I never cared – it was simply “cool”. Besides, I was certain I’d someday use my intelligence and love of science to invent an improvement that would render the trick more practical.

As I ventured into my teenage years, I discovered new value for the childhood gimmick as I filled my journal with thoughts, ideas and secrets that I certainly didn’t want my parents or siblings to read. I often wished I’d spent less time playing hockey and more time experimenting with my chemistry set; instead, I had to make do with good hiding places – and the occasional “booby trap” to ward off a nosy brother!

But perhaps “invisible ink” isn’t merely a child’s trick after all. As an adult I often write with the “grown-up” version of invisible ink – words that the world at large will never see because they were rejected by publishers, or because they only appeared on paper as a form of therapy; expressing complex feelings, fears and secrets in a solitary counseling session before meeting their ultimate fate in a shredder or trash can.

The rejection is difficult – and it doesn’t get any easier as time wears on. It’s certainly a blow to my ego to be informed that my work isn’t good enough to be accepted by the publication I’ve pursued. I long for my words to be enjoyed by others, while also, perhaps selfishly, longing to earn my living pursuing this craft that I love. I seek ways to leave this unfortunate form of invisible ink behind, but without much success to speak of so far. But I write on – I put pencil to paper and fingertip to keyboard in a dance that may torture my mind, but still often manages to comfort my heart and soul.