Fresh Motivation

 "I wrote not with any hope of making a living at it, but because I found no other means of expressing things that seemed to demand expression. There was never a moment I did not find life to be immeasurably exciting to witness, however difficult it was to sustain."
                                                                  ~Tennessee Williams
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I took a huge, courageous, creative step forward this week by joining a local writer's group.  

Big deal, you might be thinking, but for me it is. (And if you know me or have ever read my blog, you know that it is. Social anxiety is just the tip of my fear iceberg, and fear of negative response to my writing is an added element.)

An official membership certificate.  Isn't the tiny composition-book sticker too cute?!

This leap from something to nothing back to something happened in incremental steps. The timeline is basically this: ten years ago, I graduated college with a bachelor's degree in English, and found what I believed was my dream job as a reporter and copy editor at a tiny weekly newspaper. Long story short, it wasn't my dream job after all, which became undeniably clear after a year and a half of verbal abuse from my boss, total loss of confidence in my ability to do the job well, and the death of any enjoyment I once derived from writing. It manifested itself in constant daily stress, crying in the bathroom at work, and chronic stomach pains, for which there was no medical cause. I had to get out before the job got what was left of me.

So I left the job and revamped my life, going back to community college to prepare for a more sedate career as a secretary. Interestingly, less than a year after graduating from that college, I became a secretary...at that very college. So life went on, but my writing stopped completely, aside from occasional emotionally-driven jottings in my private journal, which no one but me would ever read. 

What I didn't realize then, and not for several years afterward, was that I left a huge part of myself behind when I gave up on writing. I buried my creativity under the weight and stress of daily life, believing there was no place for it on my to-do list and no time remaining after I'd crossed off every item on it. And besides, what would I do with it, even if I did make time for it? I had no real interest in returning to newspaper reporting, which, to me, was the most practical way to use my writing. But more than that was the ever-present fear. Fear that I didn't have what it takes, that no one would hire me or want to read my writing. Any youthful bravado I had upon graduating from college had long ago dissipated like sand through fingertips.

But things slowly started to shift about two years ago when turning 30 knocked into me the shocking realization that my twenties were gone, as was my potential. I wasn't where I wanted to be, or hoped I would be, when I reached that milestone, so I set about taking baby steps to change that. What hadn't I done that I'd always wanted to do? At the top of my list was writing, and having my writing published.

So I started writing, and out of that tumultuous time of my life appeared a short story (not a great story, but a story, my first in who-knows-how-long), pecked out feverishly on my brand-new laptop. It wasn't my best work, and it wasn't accepted for publication when I submitted it to an online magazine, but it was the genesis of a long-overdue creative rebirth, the likes of which I hadn't experienced in many years. And it stirred me to begin daily journal writing, which evolved into this blog at the start of 2013.

When 2014 dawned, I asked myself again, just as I did a year ago, what's next? And then I heard about this writing group and thought, why not? (Well, actually, my first honest thought was, Oh my God, can I really force myself to go?, but why not? was my subsequent thought.)

The scheduled evening arrived and I did indeed force myself to go, despite my anxious thoughts, and I'm thankful I did. Instead of feeling terrified and out of place, I felt safe and comfortable with eight literary-minded women of diverse ages with (at least) one common interest bringing them together. Writing prompts, which we were free to use or not use, were given, and several women bravely read their original work as the hour flew by. Next month, I will do the same, no matter how much it scares me, I promised myself when I left. And as I drove home that evening, I felt the stirrings of fresh motivation. Maybe I should try freelance reporting again sometime, and maybe I should go crazy and send my work to a newspaper or magazine publisher.

I don't know what will happen with my writing, but I'm more hopeful now than I was a month ago that something will happen.