I’ve always wanted to be a writer.

I started learning how to read English when I was six (I was brought up French, so had a late start), and by the time I was seven I felt like I knew something about words. I’d take every English assignment and embellish it with my own flare. In grade two, I remember my teacher taking me aside to tell me I was ‘talented.’ What that meant in reference to my actual abilities, I have no idea. Maybe she told that to every kid. Regardless, her words had a big impact on me (the impact a teacher can have on their students is pretty incredible), and from then on writing became a big part of my life.

Since then, I’ve always been able to rely on writing as a direct route back to myself. It was the very first thing that I knew about who I was.

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Short digression:

In a recent counselling session, my therapist asked me: “When did you learn how to be brave?”
Firstly, props to her for an excellent question (worth answering yourself).
Secondly, I couldn’t answer it right away.
In the room, I told her that I must have learned it from my mom (which is certainly true), but I wanted to empower myself with my answer. Where in myself had I found my own source of bravery? My right answer hit me several days later. As with most revelations, I knew it was right the moment I inhaled it while walking down my street towards Main. I’d learned how to be brave after writing my first poem. It was then that I’d realized  there was something inside of me that I wanted to protect.

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I also loved (and still love) writing because I didn’t need to rely on anyone else to do it. I didn’t need anyone else to write a story or a poem. All I needed was my imagination and, as a kid who was consistently being snapped at by adults (maybe you know what I mean by that), I was a seasoned traveller.

I started writing poetry when I was in grade four. The following year, I started my first novel about a group of kids who entered into another dimension after snooping around a spooky abandoned home on their street. In grade seven I wrote a dark fairy tale called ‘Green Blood’ about a demon princess who basically kills everyone. I also continued  to write poetry about bugs, aborted fetuses (in retrospect, I’m sorry about that), and my experience as a teenager (in grade nine I finally connected with the friends I’d have until graduation. We referred to ourselves as the losers of the loser hall – the hall being where we hung out during lunch hour and school dances).

I still have all of these poems.

I was all over the place as a writer, and although I think I may have lacked some tact, I certainly wasn’t timid. When it came to writing at least, I had no fear. It never occurred to me that doubting my abilities was something that I should do.

There was one other thing that never occurred to me:
making my work ‘worth’ something.

The reason I decided to write this post today was because several months ago (in June) I started working on a short story. I was TERRIFIED!! I knew how to write a blog post – I could do that in a couple of hours – but the thought of tackling a form I’d never before been successful in, intimidated me. I no longer had the blind confidence that I had as a kid. I’d read the great writers. I knew where the bar was for stories. I also, for some reason, got it into my head that it would be irresponsible of me to pursue this book of short stories without the intention of making money from it. The fact that I LOVE writing became a secondary motivation, and I wrote that first draft with the insatiable desire to ‘achieve something.’ This prevented me from taking any risks.

I didn’t feel like the author of the story I was telling. I felt like I was trying to write a story that already knew how it wanted to be written, and I didn’t want to disappoint it. I wanted to do it right. As a result, I obsessed over every paragraph and made uncertain decisions about the way the story would progress  – decisions I hoped were right. I wasn’t really having that much fun.

A couple months after starting, I thought I was done.

When I picked it up again a couple months after that, my stomach dropped. My prose was filled with bad metaphors and a protagonist who was a little bit too awkward. No, that’s not it… she was weak. I hadn’t wanted anyone to tell me that this story was bad, but it sort of was. Well, maybe I’m being too hard on myself, but my story was very conscious of its existence. My short story was trying very hard to be a good short story.

I started a second edit, this time with a different frame of mind. I began taking some artistic chances. I started to play. I started letting my imagination run wild. I allowed myself to get consumed in what was happening and my fingers scurried along the keyboard in an effort to keep up with what was happening in my imagination. Four hours passed with only a short interruption. I’ve never felt so energized!!
My story was transforming from something I’d written as a means to an end, into something I was actually really proud of. I was finding empowerment as a fiction writer.

There’s a metaphor here for other things.

I’ll be starting another draft of this story in a couple of days, but I wanted to write this post because there’s something I want to remember before I do.

One of the most impactful books I’ve read this year was ‘Let Your Life Speak’ by Parker J. Palmer. I want to share an excerpt:

“Before you tell your life what you intend to do with it, listen for what it intends to do with you. Before you tell your life what truths and values you have decided to live up to, let your life tell you what truths you embody, what values you represent.”

When it comes to our art, we are the only ones who can create it. The same is true of our lives: we’re only the ones who can live through our eyes.

I’ll end this reflection here.