I'm a writer. I've been one for nearly my entire life.
When I was a young girl, I took refuge in it. I always felt different, like I didn't belong in this world, like no one felt things the way I did. So I wrote to escape reality. My journal became the friend I longed for, the one who "got me," no matter what. I spent hours in my room, journaling, even writing a 200 page novel that was a love story no one would ever read.
As I grew up, I continued to keep a journal, but began to have dreams of becoming a journalist one day. As my love for the Dallas Cowboys grew, so did my dream of becoming a sportswriter. I envisioned myself in a locker room or on the field, far from my humble beginnings, forever enmeshed in a fantasy world with my favorite sports heroes.
The dream became somewhat of a reality after I went to college and graduated with a degree in journalism. I became a freelance sportswriter shortly after graduation, writing for my local newspaper, covering mostly high school sports with the occasional college or professional game sprinkled in. Never was I happier than when I was in the newsroom, rattling away on the keys of a computer, late at night.
Soon I became a mom to three children and my greatest desire was to be home with them, to raise them and to teach them. My other passion, teaching, replaced my love of writing. All of those years I still kept a journal, but stopped all other forms of writing for the most part. I discovered that I had a far greater gift which was being able to stand in front of a group of people and articulate things in such a way that a look of confusion soon turned into an "aha" moment once understanding was replaced by doubt.
At some point I started writing pieces for a community section of the Rocky Mountain News that was published only on Thursdays. Every week at least one article I wrote was published. To say that it was a thrill to see my name in print again is one of the biggest understatements I could make. Even though I made no money, the payment was far greater than any monetary thing. The love story that started years before was once again ignited by the flame of passion I felt when seeing my name attached to a byline.
As years went by, I began to write more, having many pieces published in an online publication called Colorado Magazine online. While the publisher was unable to pay me, I gained invaluable experience and got to cover events like the Denver Grand Prix which I never would have had the opportunity to do otherwise. During this time I also had stories published in three different anthologies for which I WAS paid. I also entered several writing contests and sent countless stories to other publications, only to receive rejection letters. But such is the life of a writer: rejection. And it rears its ugly head in more than one way...
All this to say that I know I'm a writer. And a writer writes. But writing scares me. It's not just the fear of rejection, but the fear of being known, of being vulnerable. Writing hurts. Not just the pain that it requires to leave it all on paper, so to speak, but sometimes it hurts those closest to me. See, I don't write fiction. I gave that up at the age of 12 when I wrote my novel. I write brutal, honest, real things that I'm feeling, sometimes to the detriment of others. It's not a malicious kind of thing; it's just a "this is what is on my mind kind of thing and if I write it, it may hurt someone else" kind of thing.
Maybe that's why I don't write more: the fear factor. I don't know. But what I do know that, for better or worse, I was created to do it, just as much, if not more, as I was created to teach.
There. I just needed to get that off my chest. And maybe, just maybe, having it out there will get me to write more.
Writing Hurts
