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Rediscovering My Written Voice

An old piece of writing I found in my parent’s garage
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Dear reader,

I can’t tell you what a weight is off my shoulders now that I have posted my first post. I’ve already learned that I tend to write really long, really wordy sentences. Reading them back is almost like listening to someone who is trying to explain something but clearly doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Which makes sense, given my admittance in my last post that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m working on it.

I had a different plan of what to write about in this second post that would have been a continuation from the first, but I want to go in a different direction instead. I want to talk about my history and relationship with writing. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always loved to read and would always be checking out books from both my school and public libraries. It wasn’t until second grade that I discovered my desire to be a writer. It’s been about 20 years at this point, and I still remember that moment clearly in my mind.

We were still taking Phonics and Language Arts classes at that age, and I remember there was one page in our workbook that we had to write a story from a basic prompt. I don’t remember what the prompt was or what my story was about, but I remember the feeling I had when I saw my teacher’s comment on it. All it said was “Great story!” or something along those lines, but that generic recognition of a completed assignment lit me up on the inside like nothing else had before and I decided I wanted to be a writer right then.

From then on, throughout the rest of my grade school experience, I would be writing different stories all the time. It began with writing wild stories that could only come from a child’s imagination where anything and everything is possible, even the most absurd situations. There was one I wrote about a girl traveling in space and having different encounters with aliens. I don’t remember the plot, but I smile every time I think about it because it reminds me of how fun it is to create something from pure imagination and not worrying about how much sense it makes. It also serves as a good reminder to follow the weird twists and turns that my streams of consciousness churn out; there might be a hidden gem in there somewhere.

As fun and exciting as writing was in those times, as I grew older, it was a disappointment to find that few of my peers shared the same excitement for writing that I did. We were a class of 17 throughout junior high and spending every school hour of every school day with that small of a class has its limitations of finding people who share similar interests. There were a few instances in those years where I would share something I wrote in class and be excited about sharing it, only to receive comments and reactions that made me feel defensive of my work.

I began keeping my writing private around the time I entered high school. The stories I was writing then mirrored events in my own life within a fictionalized context. I trying to convey every single detail true to what I had actually experienced, making it hard to get any story finished, mainly because, as I discovered later in life, I was still living the story I was trying to tell.

I was able to break out of that trend senior year in high school and had the chance to register for two semesters of creative writing electives. The first semester was a very fun, explorative class with odd assignments meant to expand our creativity and write in different forms. The second semester was structured as a workshop class for those who took the class previously described. I was in a small group with three others, and we would take turns workshopping each other’s work. During that semester, I had written tons of installments of a young, budding teenage romance. At that time, my reading tastes were strictly dystopian young adult novels, though really, I was just in denial about enjoying the romance. I’m talking Hunger Games, Divergent, Legend trilogy, the Gone series, etc.

In that workshop, I had finally found a group who respected writing and had their own passion for the craft. This was the first time I felt supported from my peers who actually took an interest in what I had to write. As a group, we began to develop skills of critiquing each other’s work in a respectful manner which helped to develop writing style.

This continued in college at Mizzou; I signed up for creative writing classes for at least one semester per year, which were all structured as workshops. In those different groups, there was a mix of critique that made me feel defensive but also supported in my work. My confidence in telling a compelling story was growing while also learning to accept the negative critiques to help me become a better storyteller, in addition to leaning what stories I am best suited to tell. My security in my identity as a writer was solidifying and I was able to recapture the excitement I had with sharing my work, even in its early stages, with some friends who provided plenty of positive reinforcement.

This trajectory came to a halt when I entered grad school. It shocks me looking back just how quickly all my creative energy had evaporated, taken place by 20 credit hour semesters with intense anatomy, physiology, and physical therapy/healthcare classes that demanded all my time and energy. It was three years devoted to learning and studying for a career that had always been on the back of my mind, the goal I had set for myself to achieve when I was in 7^th grade. There were moments during my final year that I had thoughts of “there must be more” and feeling a deep ache to create something. Those feelings were so intense there were times it was hard going to class or to my unpaid workday at whatever rotation I was on. I had a hard time interacting with my classmates and temporary coworkers, knowing I was still months away from being free from the expectation and responsibility of studying in my every waking hour.

It’s been almost 3 years since I graduated with my Doctorate of Physical Therapy and while I have more freedom to implement creativity back into my life, writing has changed for me. Writing didn’t come as easy to me as before I entered grad school and I am working on getting back to finding my written voice and my craft. It has been challenging because though story ideas have returned to my regular thoughts, that’s all they remain to be: ideas. But I know I have it in me to write a full story. Working in the health care industry, I would be lying if I said I no longer feel the weight of the deep aches and longings to create something; how it sometimes feels like there’s a boulder smushing the part of my brain that is in charge of my creativity, particularly on more stressful days in the clinic. But little by little, as long as I keep moving forward, trying new things, writing . . . I know I will find my footing again, tapping into my youthful curiosity and unjudged imaginings that can churn out a great story. I’ve always said, if Stephanie Meyer could be successful with writing too many books within the Twilight series (which I am unashamed to be part of the Twilight cult fandom), then I can write and publish at least one novel in my own lifetime.

🙂

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