I took my first Creative Writing seminar in my Sophomore year of college. It was a great class. We read a lot, did a ton of exercises and writing prompts. We spent the last half of the semester working on a longer short story; at least 20 pages of creative fiction, the story and style entirely up to us.
Of the 17 other students, I was the only one whose story didn't revolve around a romantic relationship in some way (I guess we were all sophomores in college or something...). Mine was a vaguely sci-fi story about two unusual young siblings. I loved it. Loved writing it, editing it, the whole bit. And it was really good. Not just "good for a college fiction workshop" good, but solid and meaningful in its own right.
Anyway, during the final weeks of the class everyone submitted their finished stories to the whole group, and we workshoped two or three of them a week. During the feedback on my story, one of the girls in the class started talking about a particular scene, in which the main character remembers the day she was born. This classmate started telling me how beautiful and moving that scene was, how meaningful it was to her personally because of her own relationship with her mother which she didn't go into. She started crying as she talked.
After the semester ended I didn't really think about it that much, but it leaped back to mind last night. I realized that that was the moment I decided I wanted to be a writer, that I wanted to tell stories that meant something to people and helped them look at things inside of themselves that they didn't even know they had been ignoring. And I realized that that was also the moment I took on a fear that has sat under the surface ever since.
I've been afraid that that story was a lucky fluke. That from now on my best efforts won't produce anything but "good stuff", not the kind of intangible yet powerful music that touches someone and stays with them after that put my pages down.
I think that's what a lot of us who struggle with creativity are afraid of. We fear that if we really open up and pour our hearts and everything we have into a song, painting, dance, film, story, or whatever else is jumping around inside of us, it will prove to be flat and small in the light of day. Not because we lack the skill or technique, but because in the end we just didn't have anything worth saying.
That unformed thought used to terrify me. I didn't even know that it was the reason I would just stare at blank white pages and then walk away.
But the great news is, I'm getting over it. Partly because I've been learning and growing as a writer. I've learned techniques and patterns that help me get past voices and crazy editing jitters and just start stringing words together. But mostly I'm getting over it because that fear is an evil, ugly lie.
We all have so much mystery and inspiration smoldering inside of us. We all have eyes that see the world for the first time. We all have a voice that sings and speaks like nothing else in heaven or on earth. It takes work and discipline and a willingness to open ourselves up to hurt and pain - to life in all its shades - to find it, but we all have it. It's an overwhelming and beautiful truth if you really stop to think about it.
Anyway, this is a long and disconnected ramble, but it's what I've been chewing on.
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