What Took Me So Long?

The sharp-eyed and careful observer of this blog might at this point be forming a serious question in his or her mind: why did it take me a year and a half between the time I set up this blog and wrote a welcome paragraph to the time I wrote an actual post? To which I can only answer: wow, you really are observant and, well, I have a little problem that afflicts many writers. It is something that I am not proud of but which haunts me on a daily basis.  It is relentless, it's mean to me, and it is a four-letter word: FEAR. Outside of teachers, professors, extremely close friends, and my husband, I have rarely shared my work with anyone. I am afraid of criticism. I am afraid of praise. I am afraid of someone finding an errant comma. I am afraid of someone telling me I have absolutely no business thinking for one moment that I have any writing ability whatsoever. I am just simply afraid. And yet, after one of my many writing workshops, I got brave one day and thought of a name for my blog, created it, and gave it a go. Then fear came back, roared its ugly roar, and I ran screaming from my computer. 

A year and a half later, something interesting happened. Allow me to back up a bit. I am a huge fan of Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love and several other wonderful books.  What I first admired about her was, of course, her talent with the written word. Her skill and obvious talent with crafting her stories, both fiction and non-fiction, is evident in everything she writes. When I became one of her Facebook followers and also saw several interviews with her, I realized she was someone I could emulate and admire not only as a fellow writer (of course, she's just the tiniest bit more successful than I am, but hey, there's still time, right?) but as a role model for how one overcomes the internal hurdles inherent in being a writer.

In October 2013, I had the great privilege of meeting Liz (since she signed my book from "Liz" I now feel I have the right to call her that) at an event in Connecticut. I also had my picture taken with her (my sister-in-law was with me), so I now have a permanent record of my meeting. During the event she spoke in detail about all the things that can get in a writer's way: lack of time, not feeling the writing is good enough, and fear of rejection. She was so generous and thoughtful with her answers, so encouraging of unpublished writers, so unyielding in her message that if writing is what you really want, you have to do whatever you can to make it happen. It was truly an evening I will never forget. 

Soon thereafter, Liz posted a question of the day on her Facebook page regarding talent.  To paraphrase, she stated that we are all given talent, but different kinds in different amounts. Some get a lot, some get a little, but we all get something. It's how we spend it that really matters. It was a beautifully written, thought-provoking post, as all of Liz's Facebook posts are, but I had never responded to one, not ever. She actively encourages conversation among her Facebook community, but, as always, fear had stopped me from chiming in with a comment. This time was different. It was a line she wrote about the worst thing one can do with talent that clinched it for me. Again, I will paraphrase. She wrote that the absolute worst thing one can do with talent is bury it in a jar in a garden and hoard it forever. This line, this one line, did it. So I responded in the comment section.  This is what I said:

"I am the one safely tucked away in the garden, buried deep under layers of self-doubt, mounds of excuses, and giant boulders of fear. For fifty years I have lived below the surface of life, coming up for air only briefly when some other-worldly force temporarily pushed away what was holding me down, such as when a college professor singled out my writing or when a weekend writing workshop published a story of mine online. One would think this would encourage me to come up for air more often. One might imagine that I would, at the very least, show my work to more than the only four people I currently trust to read what I write. I want to be a published writer--more than anything--but this talent is a weight (symbolically, much like the weight on my body) that I cannot seem to shed. But I am certainly growing tired of being buried. It has become too dark and too frightening. I need to tunnel my way out."

I wrote it, I hit enter, and I tried to forget about it. My words out in cyberspace where everyone, including my favorite writer, could read them. Yikes. But then something incredible happened. I got my first fan! A gentleman, whom I could only identify as being from Toronto, sent the most lovely, positive response to my post that I could have hoped for.  He said I write beautifully, that I need tunnel my way out, and that he can already see my name on a book cover. Is he a crazy person in need of help who says this to everyone? Perhaps. But I didn't care. I had my very first bonafide fan.