Eat Pray Love Made Me Do It

This essay was entered in a contest for inclusion in an anthology of essays entitled "Eat Pray Love Made Me Do It." Out of 2,000 essays, 50 were selected by Elizabeth Gilbert and her publishers. I was not among them. I am a loser and this is my losing essay. Enjoy. 

Once I noticed its existence, it became impossible to ignore. Once felt, its presence could not be unfelt any more than I could undo the color of my eyes. I sensed it before I even knew how to write or what writing was. I would take one of my father’s pens and a sheet of construction paper and make long lines of scribbles across the page, emulating what my dad did when he made out estimates for his carpentry business. Although I couldn’t yet write words, there was something about putting pen to paper that felt natural to me, like I was born to do it. It was the spark of something I could not yet define. I didn’t have access to the kindling necessary to create fire at that point, but the spark for writing was there.

When I finally learned to write and had mastered the fundamentals of spelling and grammar, there was no stopping me. In elementary school, I folded paper up into little books and filled them with simple stories that made sense only to me (and perhaps my imaginary friend). In middle school there were more involved stories that used slightly bigger words. By high school, though, I had discovered a love of writing poetry, and the combination of unrequited crushes mixed with my fledgling poetic spirit resulted in notebooks filled with terribly sad, desperately bad, mournful love poetry.

Then high school wound down and with it, the biggest decision of one’s teenage life: where will I attend college and what will I major in? The obvious choice for a wannabe writer? Journalism. I was accepted at a small liberal arts college with an excellent journalism program where I was certain I would learn the skills necessary to gather all the kindling I needed to become one giant blazing writer. Unfortunately, I never checked in with my personality when choosing this life trajectory. Considering I possess the assertive qualities of a scratching post, available merely for other beings to rub up against, stretch, and sharpen their claws upon, pursuing people for a story and asking them invasive questions to gather quotes was simply an absurd career choice. After two years and a lot of thought and angst (not to mention driving my friends crazy with my indecision), I changed my major to English. A much more solitary, thoughtful major.

After college, I floundered. Unable to find work that had the slightest thing to do with the written word, but with college loans looming before me, I worked as a diner waitress, a foster care caseworker, a day treatment worker for special needs students, and a child abuse investigator. I did whatever I had to do to pay the rent, the loans, and feed myself while my writing dreams were quietly stomped out.

Eventually I got married, moved to New Jersey, and got a Master’s degree in English with a writing concentration, thinking that maybe this would get me closer to a suitable career path. I applied for dozens of positions and was finally hired by a medical advertising agency, beginning as a proofreader and working my way up to editor. Then, one glorious day, I was promoted to copywriter. I felt as though the universe had unlocked and swung open a giant door, one on which I had been knocking for many years, and I was suddenly on the other side. I was a professional writer, at last having achieved my life’s dream of being paid to put words on a page. What I slowly came to realize, however, was that writing for an ad agency had nothing to do with creative writing. I wrote what the client wanted and rewrote what the client did not approve of. This tends to happen a great deal in advertising, usually around 5 p.m. on a Friday afternoon with a deadline of 9 a.m. Monday morning. Which brings me to the other thing about advertising that did not jive with my personality. I don’t do stress well, and 99.9% of advertising was working under intense pressure. I crumble under pressure. I seemed to crumble every day on that job; a stale, broken cookie sitting in a swivel chair producing nothing onto her blank page but tears. After several years of dreading getting up in the morning because I was completely miserable at that job, I finally left, creatively used up and stale.  

I tried teaching English to freshmen and junior girls in a private Catholic high school. I loved that job but, again, my personality failed me. I neglected to realize that along with discussing poetry and writing and The Great Gatsby, I had to discipline unruly teenagers. Again, I of the scratching-post personality could not handle this aspect of the job. I was let go after one year. Apparently even teaching writing wasn’t going to work out for me.    

It was hopeless. Finding a career path in which I could write was obviously not what the universe had planned for my life. I decided to return to working with special needs students. I got my teaching certification and made a vow to devote school breaks and summers to writing. I wrote poetry that was fair and stories that were poor. I just didn’t feel any of it. I wanted to write, yes, but there was no passion left for it. My creative spark had disappeared down a black hole and even the desire to get excited about writing something I could take pride in had apparently gone with it. I needed something to ignite the fire.

Then I read Eat Pray Love and something happened. My stomach growled for pizza and gelato and my heart yearned to know God, of course, but beyond that I heard in Elizabeth Gilbert’s words a truth that so resonated within me that something clicked. I read a story that wasn’t fiction or poetry but Liz’s own journey told in her own unique voice. When the realization hit me, it hit hard. I have a story! My soul shouted. And I have a voice! My personality answered back. And there it was. I would write my journey in my own quirky way.

I began digging. I pulled away layers of doubt in an excruciating excavation process. I loosened up insecurity until it gave, yanked away low self-esteem, used a crowbar to remove my fear of failure. I dug and dug, layer after layer, until once again there it was. That tiny spark I had so tirelessly began covering years ago. It was still there.  

I reread Eat Pray Love. I bought the audiobook to play in my car. I can do this, I thought. I began writing my story as the spark came to life once more, then began to burn. With every stroke of my pen I felt the fire grow more intense. I took several memoir writing workshops. These provided piles of kindling that I desperately needed. I spent long hours writing, rewriting, and proofreading what I’d written. The fire grew brighter and hotter as the pages spilled out. Then I took a big step forward. I submitted an essay about my father to the website that relates to the type of dementia he has. My finger hovered over the send button knowing, with absolute certainty, that I would receive nothing in return for this submission but rejection. Instead, my essay was published on the association’s website. I would never have had the courage to put my work out into the world if I had not begun the process of excavation and rediscovered my passion for writing after reading Eat Pray Love. Not a chance.

My story, a memoir through my journey with a significant weight loss followed by chronic pain, is in terrific shape now. Will it be a bestseller? Probably not. But ultimately that is not important. What matters is that I rekindled my love for writing in a way that finally worked for me and that I put fear aside in order to write my story, as well as the other stories that seem to have been waiting patiently to pour out of me for so many years. Now they have their chance.   

Eat Pray Love didn’t make me leave home to pursue travel to distant countries or radically alter my life. While Elizabeth Gilbert’s search for pleasure, devotion, and balance led her around the world, Eat Pray Love made me travel to a land of creativity buried deep within me that had long since been abandoned. Then it provided the match that my creative fire needed to begin burning. I sit now before a blazing inferno of creativity.

           

I warm my hands gently over the fire, turn back to my notebook and once again put pen to paper. My journey continues.