For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to write. To “be” a writer. Books filled with words helped me escape the present and travel to faraway locations with characters I could never hope to know in my “real” life.
But when the lightning bolt of inspiration struck, my mind would go blank when I picked up a pen or stared at a blinking cursor on my computer screen. Or, worse, the critical voice inside would shout, “what are you doing? This is silly. What could you possibly add to the world that hasn’t already been said, by people much smarter than you could ever be? Who are you to think you have the skills to accurately describe the images in your mind to bring them to life on paper? You don’t have the attention span or the stamina to turn this into anything. You might as well do something more productive with your time, instead of wasting it on this garbage idea.”
And I believed every word. I would cap my pen, walk away from my desk, feeling inadequate, defeated and small. And sad. Heartbroken, really. My inner critic thought she was trying to protect me from the pain of failure, by hovering my hand over the heated burner on the stove so I wouldn’t reach up on my own to touch the surface and get severely burned.
In my ACA recovery group, which I began attending in October 2020, we read the Twelve Promises at the end of every meeting. Those promises remind us that we deserve to take up just as much space in the world as anyone else. That we are worthy, capable, and have the support we need to endure anything that comes our way.
Armed with that knowledge, I know now that I can write. The critical voice in still there, but I’ve been working hard over the last three years to turn its volume down. To affirm that, after all I’ve done to extinguish it over the last twenty (plus) years, the desire to write still burns hot in my chest. Which tells me that it’s something I must make room for in my life.
The first piece of writing I finished recently was a story about how my grandparents met in 1953. I submitted it to Reminisce Magazine (one of their favorites) and not only was it printed it in their September 2022 issue, but they also sent me a check for $100! My first official piece of published writing! It was such a boost to my self-confidence and absolutely an incentive to continue to write. Not even for publishing, but for the little girl in me who denied her gifts for fear of not being good enough.
Progress, not perfection. I’m showing up for myself, beginning today.
"A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity." -Franz Kafka
But when the lightning bolt of inspiration struck, my mind would go blank when I picked up a pen or stared at a blinking cursor on my computer screen. Or, worse, the critical voice inside would shout, “what are you doing? This is silly. What could you possibly add to the world that hasn’t already been said, by people much smarter than you could ever be? Who are you to think you have the skills to accurately describe the images in your mind to bring them to life on paper? You don’t have the attention span or the stamina to turn this into anything. You might as well do something more productive with your time, instead of wasting it on this garbage idea.”
And I believed every word. I would cap my pen, walk away from my desk, feeling inadequate, defeated and small. And sad. Heartbroken, really. My inner critic thought she was trying to protect me from the pain of failure, by hovering my hand over the heated burner on the stove so I wouldn’t reach up on my own to touch the surface and get severely burned.
In my ACA recovery group, which I began attending in October 2020, we read the Twelve Promises at the end of every meeting. Those promises remind us that we deserve to take up just as much space in the world as anyone else. That we are worthy, capable, and have the support we need to endure anything that comes our way.
Armed with that knowledge, I know now that I can write. The critical voice in still there, but I’ve been working hard over the last three years to turn its volume down. To affirm that, after all I’ve done to extinguish it over the last twenty (plus) years, the desire to write still burns hot in my chest. Which tells me that it’s something I must make room for in my life.
The first piece of writing I finished recently was a story about how my grandparents met in 1953. I submitted it to Reminisce Magazine (one of their favorites) and not only was it printed it in their September 2022 issue, but they also sent me a check for $100! My first official piece of published writing! It was such a boost to my self-confidence and absolutely an incentive to continue to write. Not even for publishing, but for the little girl in me who denied her gifts for fear of not being good enough.
Progress, not perfection. I’m showing up for myself, beginning today.
"A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity." -Franz Kafka
Comments