Yesterday I was sitting with my boyfriend, Keith, and for some unknown reason I began to think about all of the writing I did while in high school and how proud I was of all the pieces I created. I shared the beginnings of a fiction piece, utilizing two points of view, with him. It was ten pages long, and if I do say so myself, was a solid foundation to what could have been a popular young adult book.
This all sparked my thinking: Where has my passion for writing gone?
I have a teaching class right now that focuses on teaching writing to grades K-4, and we are forced to keep a journal. Every week we must have a peer read our work, fill out our self-produced rubric, and critique us. Without fail, my partner tells me every week that my writing makes her feel inadequate. After ten minutes of reassuring her of the differences in style and subject matter she still insists that I am simply a better writer. However, I only find value in my writing because I am passionate and have always loved writing.
In elementary school I would write fiction and creative nonfiction short stories every week. I was pumping them out faster than my parents could read. But, sometime in middle school some girl told me my writing “sucked”. Instead of commenting on her limited vocabulary I chose to internalize this comment and never shared my writing again. Well, that is, until I took a poetry class in tenth grade. My teacher loved having everyone share their creativity, but the idea of sharing my writing with strangers terrified me to the point of tears. My senior year I took a creative communications class and discovered my voice again. I wrote every day and took pride in my ideas.
Now, I find myself started stories and never finishing them. I abandon them in faux-leather journals, discovering them months later and wishing I had ridden my wave of inspiration to completion. I think I’ve lost some of my creativity in writing. But, I sure as hell will never stop; no matter how much I “suck”.