Tuesday, August 30, 2011
I wrote my first story at the age of eight.
It was a lovely, whimsical tale of an adventure in a faraway land. A wicked witch needed to be defeated and a good friend, saved.
My story was loved by my teacher. I remember clearly my pride - mingled with fear - when he singled the story out as the new school play.
My enjoyment of writing was, from that moment on, firmly established. I wrote continually. When I wasn't writing I was reading. I inhaled words. One of my greatest loves, encouraged by my parents and that one supportive teacher, was in full flight.
Then, my hopes and dreams were dashed, destroyed, ruined. In high school I ended up with an English teacher who despised my style of writing. She picked at my work endlessly. My sentence structure was sloppy. My grammar, appalling. My story lines were weak. My humour, forced. Rather than help me to overcome these issues she simply piled on more criticism.
My confidence plummeted. My dreams of writing....of becoming a writer....were dashed.
Although I continued to write in private, I didn't have the bravery to show my work to anyone.
I don't know whether it is because I've grown into myself. Whether Motherhood has shaped and changed me. Whether my confidence has grown thanks to the wonderful people in my life. What ever it is, I am no longer scared or ashamed to show my 'work' to others.
Admittedly, every time I go to hit the 'publish' button on a blog entry I have a little internal battle with myself.....
What if nobody likes it?
What if it's absolute crap?
What if everyone thinks I'm crazy?
But then, I hit that damn button anyway.
You know why? Because I love it.
I love writing. Crafting my words. putting them together to create some semblance of sense.
And I love that you read it.