When I run across old notes in journals or on what-have-yous — napkins, scratch paper, anything — I realize how much time I spent lamenting on not writing. I talk about it as if it’s my life’s breath, my raison d’être, the one thing I was meant to do, and yet, day in and day out I didn’t write anything other than random notes, ideas, life’s frustrations.
While daily jotting quelled my creative spirit, there were significant lessons in revisiting old words. First, as much as I said writing was the most important thing in my life, it really wasn’t: My daughter was, and always will be my number one priority, of course. Then there was the little matter of earning money.
Like many creatives, steady work never came easily to me. Desperate for an income, basic survival was paramount. Throughout my markedly diverse career, I found myself constantly sidelined by survival schemes. As if I were radiating some desperation pheromone, lame opportunities persistently cropped up along my circuitous path — a failing restaurant, a psycho baseball player, a bogus film company, a fly-by-night art gallery, a flaky muralist — all proved to be diversions that kept me from my true heart’s desire in the name of potential income. While some were horrendous lapses in judgment, these endeavors weren’t all bad, but they only tended to my most basic survival needs: food, shelter, medical (if I was lucky) — that was it. That barebones existence went on far too long.
Resigned to escaping the terminal struggle, in 2014 I sold most of my belongings and returned to my home state. I thought when I got back, everything would change, and it did, to a degree. With my family’s help, I was able to step out of the muck and mire that impeded my professional progress. It’s amazing what living without fear of starvation or homelessness will do for inspiration. But, old habits die hard and, for months, I still wasn’t writing much.
Circumstances can be playful or cruel, and suddenly much of my first year back became hard-earned lessons in caring for a cancer patient. Ushering a dear friend toward a peaceful transition was enlightening, enriching, and heart-wrenching. The darkness of death painfully elevated my soul. I’d still write in my notebook while waiting at Mass General during chemo treatments and checkups, but the content had changed. Sunlight slicing through the west window cast shadow soldiers on mottled carpet. Bent figures flashed irrepressible smiles as they rocked and hummed and ate Saltines. Bemoaning my personal unfinished symphony became a thing of the past.
Since my friend transitioned, I’ve spent many days in introspection. Now, perusing old words makes me aware of how much time I’d wasted wishing I had more time. It was a perversely quixotic cycle of self-imposed creative limitations, and it all boiled down to one word… fear. Something inside didn’t believe my words were good enough and I was deathly afraid to confirm it was right.
The simple act of believing in oneself can change an entire life dynamic, but the concept is far easier said than done. Decades of meticulously constructed obstacles have to be recognized. Layers of bad information ran like an undercurrent in my soul. Subtle, but incessant abuses from family, work, the media, filled my head and heart. Unlocking self-confidence when so keenly groomed from birth to believe pride is a sin and boasting boorish, is a significant challenge. It was inherently uncomfortable to feel good about my own work; a terrible ingrained message — forbidden to own my talents.
As part of teaching myself to believe in my abilities, I needed to create a tangible image to conquer. Visualizing myself stepping out of my body, I watched from a distance, analyzing why I did or didn’t do certain things. It appeared movement was limited; self-doubt was an impervious wall surrounding me. It was painted yellow and made of cinder blocks, though I’m not sure why. Over several weeks, I kept that image and tried a little “counter-grooming,” imagining myself walking through the wall with each exercise.
At first, I’d press my nose against its surface. It was solid, hard, cold and rough. But, over time, I convinced myself that I could walk through that wall. Stepping right up to it, one day I pressed into it. It was oddly painful and made no physical sense, but I was able to push forward; just a little. From that point, each time I saw the wall, I moved a little further through it. It took work, and I had to push with my soul; that’s the hardest part to explain. The exercise exhausted me in ways I hadn’t thought possible.
As of now, I’m almost all the way through and can see the other side. There, things look exactly the same, but they’re not. They’re how things should be. In that place, on the other side of the wall, I am a writer, paid to write full-time. My words have value and I’m not begging anyone to see me or rescue me from drowning. I am much lighter without the weight of fear.
As I continue to grow into being a full-time writer, these are a few thoughts — bits of unsolicited advice from someone still finding her way.
- Read your old words — whether they’re from one, 20 or 50 years ago. Love them and appreciate them and use them to remember where you were at that point in time. Inhale the changes you’ve gone through and relish all you’ve learned.
- Fight the urge to perfect your work. Flaws are what make your voice unique.
- Don’t fear the grammar police.
- Talk freely about being a writer; at parties, at work, to your family, in the mirror. Shout it from the top of mountains and whisper it in your sleep. Make it so much of who you are that it crowds out all doubt.
- Don’t be afraid to truly explore what’s in your heart. Write about your fears, your wounds, your joys; write about breathing, tasting, laughing. Write about that one moment that was all your own.
- Often your first thought, that barely visible sliver of inspiration, is the best. Grasp it before it blows away.
- Steer your eyes away from the obvious. Look for what isn’t easily seen. Listen through silence.
- Don’t turn to others for approval. Know your voice and speak it loudly, proudly, completely.
- Take your eyes off the prize; in writing, the journey is all that matters.
