Embracing the Fear

I’ve always toyed with writing. A blog post here, an essay there, I just wrote when I was inspired. I’ve never considered myself a writer. I’m more a hobbyist. After all, can anyone less than J.K Rowling make it full-time as a writer?  And who would want to read my stuff anyway? The fears are always so huge, that most times I’d psych myself out and go watch another re-run of Friends.

But recently, I decided to set my doubts aside, put a little faith in myself that maybe I could with a little bit of practice be a writer. Possibly even someday adorn the coveted title of serious writer. So with a little bit of self-made confidence, I invested in my hobby and attended a weekend writing course at UCLA.

Unsure of what I was about to get myself into, I walked to the Saturday morning class with my back-pack in tow. The fear, “I’m not good enough to be here,” sat on my left shoulder yelling into my ear. I was in LA, where on every corner is an aspiring screenwriter. A school known for its fine arts program, which had pumped out famous artists, musicians, actors was intimidating. Now, I was scared. Any bit of self confidence I had before had been left back East. Was I crazy for believing that I could do this? And here at UCLA? Maybe I should’ve started small, like online where I couldn’t be seen?

No one in the room had their computer–just simple pen and paper. After rounds of introductions, the instructor explained the process for the next two days. Three to five minute writing prompts with each individual selecting one to read to the class. I thought this was a writing class, not a reading class. Now, the instructor didn’t require you to read your stuff aloud, but if you really wanted to get more out of your writing, improve it, refine it, you must read aloud. And so, the fear that I had going in was no longer the obstacle. The obstacle was me, not the writing itself.

After prompts such as, something you obsess on and something you’ve given up on, I found the one that spoke to me, a day you’ll never forget. The words flowed like fine wine in Napa, but reading it aloud to 15 strangers was daunting.

I didn’t choose to read first. I let others take the lead, so I could gauge my own inadequacies. Yet once we started what I discovered was that the process wasn’t about judging the writing or even about judging the person’s character, it was about getting deep. It was about going to the core of the story, the core of your soul. It was about asking questions that you hadn’t dared to ask yourself. A class about personal essay was indeed personal. Everyone there felt they had a story inside them and just wanted help to get it out. No judgment, just pure open hearts, baring the inner most part of their souls. Stories of lost family members, cheating husbands, betrayal, inadequacy and first loves were all exposed in their rawest form.

My turn came and I bucked it up and read my story. Until that moment I had never uttered a word about that day to anyone. I’ll never see these people again gave me sense of freedom. Yet reading the words out loud brought the experience to life all over again, and I had to fight the emotions that were welling up inside. You can do this, kept playing in my mind as my mind tried to make sense of the poor penmanship in my notebook. Five minutes later, I was done.

So right about now you’re probably thinking I’m going to share my response to this “day I’ll never forget” prompt with you. Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m holding on to this one for awhile. Maybe it’ll turn into an essay, a novella or possibly the lining of Paxton’s litter box. I just don’t know yet. What I do know is that for me writing is more than just putting words to a page, and doing it right, according to whatever standard is set. No for me, writing is cathartic; it’s my therapy, my secret place where I can explore memories, the wishes, disappointments, and dreams. Anything can happen when I write, and exploring where it takes me is the fun. I find liberation in a blank page. Some may say it’s an escape from reality, but for me, it is my reality. And that’s being a writer.