I always loved to write. When I would receive my creative writing papers back in school with those beautifully penned comments, “Great Work” or “Fantastic,” sometimes even underlined for emphasis, I would be thrilled. Yet no teacher fostered my love of writing beyond those blurbs written on my hammered out efforts to express myself on my mother’s old manual typewriter. Don't let me overstate. I also received my share of little red marks speckled about like chicken pox noting grammatical errors. So please excuse any you may find here.
For some reason (practicality in my blood perhaps), I never thought about writing as a career choice. I suppose I didn't want to become a cliché. A starving (literary) artist working at the local diner. So life proceeded, and I never doled out a slice of my pie-of-life for writing.
About a decade later, I saw a writer's workshop listed in the newspaper. They were to meet once a week for several weeks. It struck a chord in me. Reawakened the longing to express myself on paper. Just a few blocks from my home, they would be meeting at one of my favorite places- the library. Any surface excuse not to go would really have the underlying cause: Too chicken. So with fears in check, I thought it would be great to push myself forward, and signed on immediately with my husband's encouragement.
Ah, how brave I was when it was a month away. For when the day came, I went with nervous hesitation as I am, what I would envision many writers to be, quite the introvert. Will I have to stand in the middle of the class, baring my inner self and do a reading of my work? Will I still get glowing comments on my papers? Or instead, receive as little Ralphie in A Christmas Story did- my version of, “You'll shoot your eye out” type feedback? Life is a crapshoot. I rolled the dice.
There were about a dozen of us. Fellow pen and ink wannabe's together in a tiny room, sitting around two long tables pushed together. They were, I observed, mostly dressed in stereotypical artsy garb of the time with fanciful scarves, chunky necklaces, head wraps and leggings. Outwardly, it appeared the desire to write may be all I had in common with the group. Still, I hoped to connect with our mutual interest.
We were given five minutes to write out our answer to, “Who am I?” as an icebreaker. I proudly began writing I am a wife and mother...blah blah, practice Occupational Therapy, (we are so defined by our career choice, aren't we?), blah blah, love dogs and gardening, and more blah. I might as well have been writing my eulogy.
As they began around the room reading what they wrote, panic set in. They were saying they were essentially, “...orbs bouncing around the universe...” types. Oh no! How can I change mine before they call my name and stare at me and tell me to loosen my restraint and open up to said universe? I was nothing like them. I didn't realize that's what they meant. Is this the second part and I missed the first workshop? Quite a few did seem to know each other… While my mind was scrambling to think about who I am in a metaphorical sense, I heard my name through the static in my head.
I prefaced my reading with an apology, sheepishly stating I misunderstood what they wanted. The instructor was quick to interrupt and reassure me. Oh, there was nothing they wanted, except to hear my voice. They all nodded in unison. It seemed they were all together and in the know. I was the lone wolf here. Or was I the lone lamb among what I perceived to be the wolves?
After reading, I looked up to see blank stares and worse yet, tilted heads with patronizing grins. The clanging of multiple bangles on a woman's wrist as she moved her arm was all I remember hearing, harkening it to the sound of an animal ready to attack! Was that a growl? I do believe I saw, “Oh, poor darling, she has a long way to go,” written in bubbles over their heads. They could just as easily been an actual pack of wolves, tearing at my self confidence. I wondered if I left running and screaming, would I get my forty bucks refunded?
Since that writing workshop, another couple of decades have gone by. Can I be that old? I realize I don’t have the great American novel in me. But I still have a desire to write, so it's about time I start before my vision goes, or arthritic fingers inhibit my progress at the laptop. I am too factual for fiction. There will be no gelatinous orbs milling about in my universe. Alas, no Margaret Mitchell will be found here either.
I will be writing about what I know and love: My passion of all things horticultural. I carved out a huge hunk of the life pie to gardening over the decades since that workshop. I hope my writings will find their way through the overdone complex series of tubes to people who have this love in common with me. Hopefully we can learn from each other. If you have to use a nail brush to scrub the dirt out from under your nails, you are speaking my language. I’d love to hear from you.
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