On Being a Writer Part 1

How I became a writer

I wrote a story in a high school creative writing class. I can’t even remember what it was about, but because of how it was received and commented on, it sparked something in me. Of course, at the time, I didn’t pursue writing because I got pregnant, married and had to work while raising a couple kids.

A few years later, I took a couple creative writing classes at Northern Essex Community College. I still have journals started from back then and a story, “Sarah,” which I wrote for the final exam from which the instructor said was the highest grade in the class. Again, I don’t remember much, but that class also started the journaling which many years later became morning pages after reading Julia Cameron’s “The Artists Way.”

Stories. We all have them about our lives. Much is mundane, but there are moments of inspiration and interesting happenings that deserve to be shared, talked about. There needs to be a mining for the gold that’s deep within all of us; the nuggets that make us unique, tell our individual stories. How do I do that? How do I get past all the crying and sadness to pull out those important nuggets?

Then I wonder how can I continue writing and be a painter at the same time? Too many times I shut the creative muses down – one or the other or both. Sometimes squashing one creative spark shuts them all down. And sometimes life itself gets in the way of creativity and pulls the rug out from under me leaving me a collapsed wreck.

So, after reading the first couple of journals from the late ‘70s, when I was in my 20s, I ask myself if I want to continue. I’ve been writing almost every morning all these years. Will it just make me more depressed? But there are many good points in amongst all the angst.

There are nuggets to be mined; lessons learned. I’ve had an interesting life because I’ve not towed the line and become part of a flock. Oh, I made attempts to join groups and such, even became a Christian for a number of years, which brought ridicule from family.

Now, I sit here trying to look back though the past to figure out why I am the way I am … and to stand strong in the woman I am.

Being Stubborn on my Less Traveled Path

I write every day, telling my story, talking about life. There’s something in me that says if I write it all down, it’ll prove I don’t just sit around doing nothing. Thinking- work (contemplation) is as much a part of life as physical work.

I keep track of times, not perfectly, but it gives an insight into my days. Recording thoughts and actions is kind of a way of proving I was here, and I’ve lived an interesting life (at least, to me).  Yes, there is the mundane and the repetitions, but sometimes, something insightful comes out of my ruminations.

I feel sad. As with many things I am recognizing about my life is that no one else really cares. I feel that everything in my life and this house are things only I care about. There is nothing here no one else would want. The half a dozen books half written and the three written but that’s as far as I’ve gone … (My mother’s voice echoes from the past: “You never finish anything.”) No one will ever read my journals, poems, or manuscripts. I AM the only one who cares.

My paintings pile up around the house. I just don’t have it in me any more to run them around to different art shows or set up at exhibitions. But I won’t stop painting or writing.

I’ve led an interesting life, a different life. There have been many lessons, but I’ve pretty much forged my own path; even when I didn’t realize I was doing so.  Now I see I’ve been slogging along mostly off the beaten paths. Oh, I’ve occasionally jumped on one band wagon or another, but never for long. I am not a follower.

I take the paths less traveled, sometimes hacking through brush and undergrowth. Stand in one spot too long and the vines will wrap around feet, wind up, and eventually strangle you. Gotta keep moving.

But these days, with stiffening limbs and pain, the physicalness is getting harder. I wonder about end-of-life and being less mobile. Does that make me think and worry even more? There’s another lesson in here somewhere.

Perhaps it’s part of letting go. Stop worrying about things I have no control over. And if I have no control over it, I don’t want to see or hear about it. Yes, conversations are good, but to have crap shoved in your face every day, stuff you don’t care about …

As I keep saying, I feel hounded and harassed. And I refuse to join in. I WILL continue to walk my own path! (And when I can’t get around anymore, I’ll want to be done.)