Lesson Learned

I used to write - a lot. I began journaling when I was around 9. Always making up stories here and there, knowing I wanted to be a writer when I grew up (or a shrink). I guess I haven't grown up yet. In high school I had this English teacher who critiqued a poem I had written. I don't remember it - all I remember is that I was comparing love to a wilted flower. She liked it but still had to throw in a negative comment about it being a typical love poem. Everyone else loved it. But not her - she only liked it and then put her stamp of disapproval on it.

Why did I let the teacher who would re-read the same "classics" until they fell apart bother me? The same woman who lived and breathed English lit 24/7 with out a real life? I don't know but nevertheless it did. And the realization hit me a few days ago that it still does. She took my budding voice away from me that day. And I want it back. To a young adult, criticism can only be constructive for so long, eventually it becomes damaging to the frail teenage ego. After healing the hurts from the remnants of my childhood brought about by my family something was still off kilter. The memory of her criticism of that particular poem came at me out of nowhere, but I'm glad it did. Now I can move on and get back to writing.

I'd start and then stop. I'd only be able to get so far on a project and then the same fear would make me freeze. Whether it was a novel, a poetry collection or even a website design it didn't matter. Fear would always take over me. What if it isn't good enough? I'd put it away only to pull it out weeks or months later and see that it wasn't that bad. And I'd add a little more to it until that thought would invade my head again. Excuses would be made - I don't have time, I'm too tired, whatever necessary to avoid the truth - that I was afraid.

Reading books didn't help - self-help books, writing books, books of inspiration - nope - just another reason to continue putting off what I know feeds the core of my being. And as spring has started to show signs of life, so has the urge to write. The memory of that teacher is my starting point to put those fears to rest once and for all. I can't let no one else deem my worthiness. The criticisms and judgments have nothing to do with me. I'm done playing the victim and giving up my dreams. Writing is a part of me. Ink runs through my veins. No more excuses - circumstances will never be perfect for me to write. Time isn't my enemy, I just have to be more aware of how I use it. Stuff is going to happen regardless - how I react is what really matters. I'm the one who determines what goes on in my life and what I choose to do.

After being stifled creatively for years, discourage by others who thankfully no longer have any say in what goes on in my life, I'm letting go of that negativity and moving forward. That's my mantra this year - moving forward no matter what. Progress is being made yet at times I still stumble with it. I keep getting up, brushing the dirt off (like Obama) and moving along. Gotta do what I gotta do. Short bursts of inspiration - a story line here, a character there, a few pages every now and then, never got much done. But that's ok, I see what I needed to learn. I've been lost and not sure where to go with my creativity. Do I try novels, poetry or non-fiction? Or all of the above? I still don't know. All I know is that I need to follow my heart. Pick up the pen, show up to the page and see what shows up. Outside circumstances will come and go but what's in my heart is here to stay.

So even if others decide to throw their two cents my way I won't let it phase me. My ego is out of the picture. My heart is in charge leading me to the realization of my dreams. And this journey is going to be a blessed event indeed.