Rethinking the Butterfly

By Brona Pinnolis ©2009

When I was a very young girl I wanted to add “Butterfly” as a second middle name. “Brona Ellen Butterfly Pinnolis” sounded much more uplifting, to me anyway, than my regular name. Everyone had trouble pronouncing Brona (rhymes with Donna), so perhaps it was understandable I sought to enhance it with something so appealing and at the same time so easily understood. As I buzzed silently around my backyard during the hot southern summers, arms outstretched and flapping as elegantly as a seven-year-old can flap, I imagined I was a butterfly, perhaps rescued from the straight pin fate of my older brother’s collection of monarchs and beautiful black swallowtails.

It was during my Butterfly stage I first decided the writing life was for me. Very little excited me more than taking pencil, crayon or chalk and turning a blank sheet into something. In those days our childhoods were lived fully outdoors, so writing took place under a shade tree instead of at a desk or table. I loved the crackling sound upon first opening a marble-covered composition book, its wide-ruled sheets just waiting for my bitten-fingered little hands to begin. Sometime during this phase I wrote my first rhyming poem called “Colors.” My mother’s excitement and joy at my accomplishment made me believe I was good at this and so I kept on doing it. I still remember the opening lines of that poem and remember thinking it was profound, although I had no idea what that word meant at the time; it was just the feeling of these words being really, really important.

I carried the commitment to a life of writing all the way to college. I had been a dutiful diarist, an A+ paper writer in high school, and thought I would become a journalist, all the while planning on writing “The Great American Novel.” I worked on my school newspaper for four years, but had a slamming realization on the way to fulfilling this dream: I was too shy and uncomfortable calling people to ask them questions they didn’t want to answer. It created a deep pit in my stomach. Once in a while I could muster the strength necessary, but on a daily basis? I just didn’t think I could do it. So I did what any self-respecting English literature major would do: I went to law school instead. If I wasn’t going to write, then I was going to talk for a living.

Occasionally during my long career as an attorney the writing bug would still arise. And, of course, there were plenty of writing opportunities in the legal profession. After I had children, I started writing short stories for them. We would illustrate them together and read them over and over again. But I kept on practicing law, earning a living, raising my family and started coming to the conclusion that perhaps writing as anything other than a hobby was really just a pipedream after all. I never forgot what one of my college professors said to me after class one day. I had the “potential to be a great writer,” but I would have to work at it every day without stopping, to become my potential. I began to think I was just too unmotivated to do this. I did have the occasional bursts when I turned my attention back to pure writing. I managed to sell a story to a national publication one time. But then again, life got in the way and the burst petered out.

There is something about turning 50, however, that makes one turn the focus squarely on your own being. The turning of the hands of the clock, the general gist of having lived more than half your life does grab one’s attention. So, as I turned my professional attention to the financial world at about that time, I decided to write. I developed opportunities to write informative articles and later decided to collaborate with two other women to write a book. Our “Women, Money & Cheesecake: A Fresh Approach to Finances” is just about ready for publication. I was finally writing again and with a purpose.

The irony of advancing technology? It is both ruining the written word and spreading it at the same time. All around me my old friends from college, the ones who did become journalists, are thinking about what to do with the rest of their lives now that newspapers are closing their doors. On the other hand, the web is an infinite ocean of writing, writing, writing. That ocean brings new opportunities, not to write “The Great American Novel,” but to write, to create and to communicate.

So, after working in finances for a few years and when I had the opportunity to teach at the university level part-time, I made the move. I left the financial office and instead dubbed myself a freelance writer. In the few short months since making this decision I am shocked to find that I am actually getting paid for doing what I love to do. I have thrown myself into the new endeavor like nothing before and jobs are finding me. I am now doing what my professor long ago told me to do, writing every day. I love it and hope my new business will continue to grow over time. With my kids almost grown I have no more excuses to let it peter out again.

Back in the halcyon days of childhood I envisioned myself as a writer. Today, at the age of 53, I finally am one. It is hard to describe the feeling of reconnecting with something I always imagined I would do. But I would have to say, if anyone asked, it might feel something akin to what I imagine the first flight feels like to my namesake butterfly.