Writing
It's been far, far too long since I've taken a day to just write. This season with kids at home, upheaval everywhere, and nasty illnesses has made it difficult to carve out space for this.
Ever since I can remember, this has been the dream I've held closest. No matter what else I wanted to do in life, it always ended with, "and write." I brought home "books" daily from kindergarten. My very first published works--roughly speaking--were completed when I was just five. My dad and I sat down to our brand-new computer. He helped me type up two stories, and then we printed them out. They were the first stories that weren't handwritten, and I was in awe! We illustrated the books, and then he bound them in wallpaper samples. I had arrived. I was a published author.
On the one hand, and more than anything, writing feeds me and fuels me like nothing else that I do. It's my therapy and outlet, but also my passion. I have to write. It's so much a part of me, I have no choice.
On the other hand, I am terrified of writing. I've never been able to pinpoint the exact reason I'm afraid. Maybe it's a fear that I'm not good enough? That I'll dig too deeply and not like what I see? That what I write won't be as loved by others as it is by me? I can't tell you why I'm afraid, but I know I'm not the only writer out there who is.
When I lag in enthusiasm for writing, I try to find new ways to fan the flame. I've listened to just about every Master Class hosted by a famous author, and digested their words. Usually, I find myself pausing the lessons to go off and write something that they've inspired. Other times I sit down and read. I read books for the story (and I can always get lost in a good story!), but also for the mechanics, the tools the author used, the construction, and the subtle things that I could make my own. I've been doing a lot of reading recently.
Sometimes I'm afraid I've missed my window and waited too long to break into the writing world. I worry about all the time I've wasted not writing, when I could have been turning out work for years. A young me would never have dreamed I would still be largely unpublished by now! But I'm learning there's a benefit to writing as I get older. A twenty-year-old version of me lacked experience and understanding of people that I'm only just now beginning to acquire. It's given me peace to relax into the reality that the passing of time doesn't mean I've failed.
It's actually been a thrilling month, as two of my articles have been published. I had so much fun watching as my online article was shared over and over throughout the days that followed! How amazing, to think my words could have resonated with so many people. The magazine article marked my first paper publication (unless, of course, you count the poem I had published in a book when I was 12 or 13). In the opening pages, they listed all of the contributors to the issue. And they wrote "April Barcalow, writer." It was the moment I felt validated, felt that maybe I really am a writer. There are no certificates or board exams like nursing to designate a writer, and I've often felt that maybe I haven't really reached that goal yet. I took a picture of that page and put it up in my closet, to encourage me to keep on.
Today is one of the rare days when all of my kids are in school on the same day, the house is quiet, and there is nothing more pressing to do than to sit down and write. It's time to revisit stories that have kept me awake constructing paragraphs in my mind. It's time to move plot lines forward. My heart was absolutely racing as I sat down at the keyboard. But it's good. It's so good to feel some air beneath my writing wings.
Who knows where it will lead? But it's thrilling (and sometimes terrifying!) to just let the words flow.
