I began writing in at least Junior High—probably before that but nothing was ever
saved or even honestly respected until much later. This is odd to me because
both of my parents were editors on the Purdue University newspaper and writing
has always been important to them. I presume they put more emphasis and
importance on journalistic (or purposeful) writing than imaginative journeys
written in prose or poetry and that is why I remember being asked, when I hoped
to share something creative I had penned,“Is your homework done?” Kind of put
the kibosh on openly demonstrating my interests.
I virtually stopped writing for many years, only occasionally getting a beginning,
middle or even, once in awhile, an actual finished draft down on paper. I felt
that my life was filled with mundane, boring, dreary details and there were no
stories worth telling. When the opportunity to take a college creative writing
class came along in 2008 (years after I had graduated from college), I was at
first excited but quickly let worry take over. Could I hold my own with other
writers? Could I actually write anything someone else would want to read? Could
I learn new ways to tap into the stories that must be in my head somewhere? I’m
not sure I would have taken the class on my own (no, actually, I know I wouldn’t
have) so I am grateful to my husband for wanting to expand his knowledge base as
well. We kind of convinced each other that the class would be fun—and the grades
didn’t matter.
After the first hour and a half of class, I was hooked. I didn’t need a break, didn’t
want a break, couldn’t wait for the break to be over so we could get back to
work. I felt energized and ready to take on the challenge of writing again. The
old feelings from Junior High came flooding back and I pulled out old stories
and the beginnings of works and dug in. I am feeling like a writer—something I
have only referred to in the past tense for many years. Not “I was a writer” but
“I am a writer.” I have come full circle.
Now comes the next stage of work. I am searching for the stories and trying to
understand what they are and how they should be written. I am learning how to
respond to not only others’ works but also their comments to me. It’s been a
challenge to trust myself to believe I can offer something meaningful. But most
of all, I want to retain the interest in writing that has been rekindled by the
community formed in the class, and my support person, my husband Bill. I believe that interest is strong and sure and for that I am grateful.
saved or even honestly respected until much later. This is odd to me because
both of my parents were editors on the Purdue University newspaper and writing
has always been important to them. I presume they put more emphasis and
importance on journalistic (or purposeful) writing than imaginative journeys
written in prose or poetry and that is why I remember being asked, when I hoped
to share something creative I had penned,“Is your homework done?” Kind of put
the kibosh on openly demonstrating my interests.
I virtually stopped writing for many years, only occasionally getting a beginning,
middle or even, once in awhile, an actual finished draft down on paper. I felt
that my life was filled with mundane, boring, dreary details and there were no
stories worth telling. When the opportunity to take a college creative writing
class came along in 2008 (years after I had graduated from college), I was at
first excited but quickly let worry take over. Could I hold my own with other
writers? Could I actually write anything someone else would want to read? Could
I learn new ways to tap into the stories that must be in my head somewhere? I’m
not sure I would have taken the class on my own (no, actually, I know I wouldn’t
have) so I am grateful to my husband for wanting to expand his knowledge base as
well. We kind of convinced each other that the class would be fun—and the grades
didn’t matter.
After the first hour and a half of class, I was hooked. I didn’t need a break, didn’t
want a break, couldn’t wait for the break to be over so we could get back to
work. I felt energized and ready to take on the challenge of writing again. The
old feelings from Junior High came flooding back and I pulled out old stories
and the beginnings of works and dug in. I am feeling like a writer—something I
have only referred to in the past tense for many years. Not “I was a writer” but
“I am a writer.” I have come full circle.
Now comes the next stage of work. I am searching for the stories and trying to
understand what they are and how they should be written. I am learning how to
respond to not only others’ works but also their comments to me. It’s been a
challenge to trust myself to believe I can offer something meaningful. But most
of all, I want to retain the interest in writing that has been rekindled by the
community formed in the class, and my support person, my husband Bill. I believe that interest is strong and sure and for that I am grateful.
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