I’m already struggling to write this piece. I’ve been doing this lately, holding back and hesitating with my writing. It is not fun.
It should come as no surprise then that attending my writers’ group last night was not something I was looking forward to. Sure, I had a piece I could share. Yeah, announcing I was leaving town soon would be something. But in the end I’m still not as passionate about this writing stuff as the real writers. While they write beautiful prose all I do is write down the conversations I have with myself in my mind. It’s really more “recording” than “writing”.
When I got to the meeting though I was delighted to find a new member had entered our ranks. He introduced himself and shared with us how after a life time of trying to discover his creative pursuit, he had recently found he was a poet. He also had taken it upon himself to self-publish much of his work.
He then went on to share with us his writing process which involves him sitting down each night and writing “sometimes a little”, but “most times a whole lot”. Listening to him it seemed to me he’d found his creative energy wave and was riding it for all it was worth. I applauded him.
Then, I watched myself grow envious. I felt myself cave in on myself. Here was another real writer in my midst. *sigh*
I thought this, then heard the clock tick a beat. What happened in this next moment was something surprisingly beautiful.
Somehow I found myself relating to him.
Instead of staying focused on my perceived lack, I let myself FEEL like part of the group and like someone worthy of participating in the conversation.
This frame of mind shift was all I needed. The group, and me as a part of it, used the rest of our time together to listen to and discuss poetry, prose, and language in general. The works we shared, and the discussions we had about them, were heartfelt, powerful, and fun.
Dare I say that during this time I felt a writer’s passion stir?
Indeed, I dare.