I was eight when I started journaling - someone gave me a small black book teeming with blank pages and possibility. Up until that point, I had wanted to be an archeologist. Suddenly, I wanted to be a writer. With ink in my veins, the impulse consumed me.
In math class I hid a scribbler in my textbook. I wrote stories instead of learning my timetable. As the years passed, I wrote stories at recess. I wrote stories on the bus to school. I wrote stories under the blanket with flashlight & pen. The pinnacle of my young writing career - single highhandedly starting up a school newspaper in 6th grade. I was journalist, editor and publicist - making smudgy-blue copies on an old hand cranked copier. My endeavor was, in a word, awful but I was eleven. Awful was an important step - and a hard road to travel.
It was about that time I wrote my first book - hundreds of loose-leaf pages tied with red yarn. My mother made an innocent and immense mistake when I showed her my manuscript - chest puffed out, confidence pulsating. Instead of gushing, she set it aside and said she'd read it later. Devastated, I threw my manuscript away. It is my first memory of real rejection. Adding insult to injury, I was writing letters to my grandmother - a retired grade school principal. In one particular letter she mentioned she would be able to better correct my spelling mistakes if she could only manage to decipher my penmanship. Heart broken, I ended correspondence. It was about that time I also noticed a comment written on my 6th grade report card regarding my writing. "Where Stacy excels in quantity she lacks in quality". Another brutal blow. I vowed I would never write again...
And yet, I couldn't stop journaling. Journaling was a compulsion. It was a safe place to speak my mind. And I needed to speak my mind. In my journals I could write gratuitously and no one would know it. No one would suffer at the hand of my spelling blunders or crude calligraphy. Most importantly, no one would reject my work- the way I spoke my truth; my keen reflections; the depth of my emotions. Through journaling I was evolving quietly, secretly and in-spite of .
Journaling saved me in many many ways.
Something changed in the 10th Grade. My English teacher introduced me to the simple elegance of a three sentence paragraph and a five paragraph essay. She taught me the self-mastery of writing down only what was essential and poignant. It was brutal. It was also freeing. I started writing again. Somehow, this discipline reopened a door for me. It gave me the confidence to return to storytelling.
After graduating, I had written a short story called Zephyr's Kiss. Cautiously, I showed my tiny fable to a much trusted mentor who happened to be a writer herself. Sharon confirmed my suspicions - I might actually be a writer. She asked me if she could publish my story in her tiny country periodical - Sweet Falling Rain. She paid me $36. Maybe 20 people ever read it. If memories could be molded into gems and worn around our wrists, this 36-dollar-memory would be priceless to me.
The demands of husband and small children replaced my dreams of being a professional writer but never kept me from the refuge of writing. My journals saved my sanity. My first husband was a demanding man and he had specific priorities for me. I struggled to write with him at the helm of my life. The message: writing was something to do in my spare time. A hobby. I could get serious about it when the children were grown.
Besides, motherhood proved to be an all consuming job. I managed to write where I could - small & informal essays on a homeschooling forum; a few self published children's books; editor of a woman's newsletter; eventually my own blog. And of course I filled a 500 page journal every month. All unsanctioned writing but nonetheless, writing. The desire consumed me despite my husband's alien expectations and the demands of motherhood.
Looking back, I was always writing. I dabbled in short story, poetry, children's prose and even illustrating. I was an essayist. I was a diarist. But I couldn't' say the words. Sometimes I'd admit to the possibility, find myself burning with anticipation, only to panic and take the mantle off - quickly in case someone was looking. I felt like a kid playing dress up. It's strange the way we hold ourselves back, isn't it?
For a very long time I regretted not getting an English Degree. When I started writing small publications (10%er and short commentary) for a local Member of Parliament, I was amazed that I was officially being paid to write. And I keenly regretted not having that English Degree. It was an extremely stressful job but that MP believed in me. The office manager (who edited my work), probably not so much. I remember when my employer introduced me to the Mayor as a very talented writer. I felt shy and ashamed - desperately wanting it to be true and unable to believe it. But I learned a lot working there for that brief time. I learned how to write on deadline. I learned to write through anxiety. I learned I used too many adjectives. I also learned not to take indifference, criticism and alien expectation too personally.
If you are still reading, I think it may be because my story is your story - just change a few details. We are kindred spirits, you and I. We may be diarists or bloggers or poets or novelists but whatever the genre - we are writers. We have something to say and we are propelled to say it regardless of our obstacles. We further legitimize each other as writers by sharing our stories. It's just that simple. It's just that challenging. It has taken a whole lot of awful to get me to where I am and maybe I still have a bit more awful to go and that's okay. I'm just glad I'm on this journey.