A Few Home Truths

Writing in the NaNo competition has been a time of great revelation for me. I posted a query to a writing forum the other day, asking if any other NaNoWriMo participants had experienced significant changes since November 1st, the day this 50,000 word novel in a month challenge began. Dear Readers, you’ll remember I touched on my personal experience in a two part blog entry earlier this week. I was surprised to receive quite a few responses (16 actually); most of them were a sincere sharing of the way this writing madness has changed them for the better. Since I finally made the correlation of writing and my own growth, I’ve been trying to define what the trigger was that changed things for me.

I tend to look for the obvious first so I thought that just the physical act of actually writing and meeting a self-imposed word limit – something I had very cleverly managed to avoid in the past – was what gave me this feeling of well-being. However, while that’s true to some degree, it’s not the bottom line reason I’ve changed. My next thought was that I was suffering from a case of mis-placed ego; after all, I had wanted to write since I was about 8 years old, and have, in fact, written in spurts ever since. However, I never considered myself a writer. I never finished anything because first of all, I was afraid to commit to my writing, and second, perhaps more importantly, I was convinced that I was no good: that my stories were lame, that my style and my voice was too ornate for my generation (I was a teenager who secretly read Eudora Weldy). I wanted the things I was driven to write to have meaning to the world. I wanted to save myself. I wanted to save myself.

It was a combination of factors that enabled me to transition from ‘playing’ writer to becoming one. Writing one particularly difficult scene made me stop and analyze why I just couldn’t get it – why I was missing the flavor in the passage and it dawned on me. I was writing in someone’s else’s voice. Once I finally realized I was writing the way I thought everyone expected me to, I got giddy. Yep – I was laughing and crying at the same time but oh, lawsy was I ever happy! I became light headed with relief, knowing that I just wasn’t going to search for approval and love from some outside source that just wasn’t going to come. I realized I had to write for me as me.

I broke my self-imposed barriers; I absolutely refused to listen to that one particular ‘you’ll never amount to anything’ refrain that looped through my brain, the words harsh and crackly on that too-oft played reel-to-reel tape.

I knocked down the ‘I should do it this way’ walls and constructed my vision of a beautiful home for my words. I gave them room to grow and dance and in doing so, gave my soul permission to breathe.

I will freely admit, however, that I’ve covered up my true self for so long that this Me is still a beautiful stranger I can’t wait to get to know.

Is it self indulgent that I feel like a Christmas gift to myself? I’ve opened the box and inside are many layers and layers of delicate tissue paper, some glittery, some in beautiful ocean colors. There are shades of the morning sky and mountain hues and starry nights. As each exquisite layer is lifted, the underlying gift that is me becomes more and more apparent. I’m excited by this gift, it’s something I’ve always wanted but didn’t know where to find.

I just thought of something else…I used to wish I could write a generic, lighthearted blog that would draw hundreds of followers who read me everyday and talked of my latest foible around the watercooler at the office, much like people used to discuss the daily newspaper columns (remember those days?). However, that desire to write like others is gone. Writing long narratives gives me great joy and satisfaction.

This is my voice. This is me.

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"The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort, that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers." Unknown

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Day 2, Li’l Sis. I’ve started you a letter and will mail it tomorrow. I love you.