It's IWSG Day. The goal of this blog hop is to share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds. The brainchild of Alex Cavanaugh, our brilliant ninja leader. To read more posts, click here.
Today’s question: What was your very first piece of writing as an aspiring writer? Where is it now, collecting dust or has it been published.
The next week, puffed up and filled with expectation, I gave the piece to a friend, one of the editors of our junior high school magazine, thinking it was good enough to be published in the year-end issue. She returned it to me a few weeks later speckled with comments from her peer reviewers. The first remark went something like, “You know I hate this kind of stuff. I don’t know why I'm even reading it.” Someone else said, “Nice sentiment, but awkward phrasing. Pass.” The third reviewer didn't bother to comment, but penciled in a numerical score--I believe it was two point five out of five. Needless to say, that little bit of descriptive brilliance never made it to print. I packed away the disappointment and the piece, but never the swelling in my heart that drove me to pick up the pen.
A few weeks ago, I had an email exchange with one of those twin sisters, a friend I’ve known longer than anyone other than family. She asked how my writing was going, and then reminded me of that weekend so long ago on the Cape. “I was so jealous of you, how you could just sit down and write.” I didn’t know, back then, that other people can't or don't care to perhaps, act on their feelings in the same manner that drives me. I just knew that day on the beach, I'd witnessed true beauty and it called on me capture its essence. Or, attempt to, anyway.
I've had lots of pieces published since then, but it took me a long time to get there, years in which I yearned to "become" a writer but afraid to label myself as one, and this IWSG question has led me to understand something. It's likely this compelling need to chronicle what touches me defines many writers. Who knew? It was never necessary for me to "become" a writer. Since that dark-ages day on Cape Cod when I was a teen, I’ve been one.