I talk a lot about my family (at least my mom) through this blog; I mean it's because it's the most honest thing I know - for better or worse, right? It doesn't mean that everything is peachy perfect, or that the white picket fence keeps all the evil away, but I'm home grown. My family is my family. They're my roots.
Writing is also a big part of my roots - it has always been a part of my life. Whether I was playing a rhyming game in the car to prepare myself for poetry contests in elementary school or performing "plays" written by yours truly, it was important to me. It made me feel good. Years later, I would recognize writing as my cathartic way of processing that sultry little detail called life.
For example, going through a third knee surgery. Ya dig?
In 2009, after quitting my job based on a morality decision with absolutely zero plans, I found myself with an odd schedule that allowed me to pursue writing further. I entered a creative non-fiction writing class, where we pretty much wrote as we pleased and turned in our work to the teacher, who would then pick some of us to read out loud to the rest of the class.
The first time I was ever picked to read out loud, I had to read something so personal of mine (hey, it was non-fiction, you write what you live), that I cried while I read it. I hadn't shared those thoughts with...anyone, really, before then. I can think of a few favorable moments that were more enjoyable than that one, to say the least. It was, however, my first insight as to what it might be like to share myself with others through writing. My teacher tested me and I knew it. That doesn't mean I didn't want to sink into a puddle while up in front of the class though.
After the class that day, I received countless hugs from fellow writers. They had a story too. We embraced wordlessly, and without knowing one another''s name. I was months out of college, and some of the hugs came from women who had experienced 5 decades more of life than me - they didn't hold it against me though. We just sort of...understood one another. Suddenly, I was connected to people in a way that would remain very special for years to come.
Through that class, a smaller group of us branched off and founded our own writing group. We met weekly in a park on Thursday mornings and shared tales of our lives through story. We cried and laughed and shared snacks, but we listened and critiqued intently. While the stories were personal, the group formed around the writing of the stories, not the living of them. We knew the deepest and darkest of secrets, but we cared about them with grammatical finesse and literal input. Eventually, an even smaller group of us decided we were like-minded and handed enough to form a more specific group.
We are all women who write non-fiction. That's our premise. Those are our roots.
Yesterday, all six of us got together. We celebrated the publishing of one member's book, a book we know well and listened to and gave input on for years. We celebrated a new job, a new move, and new beginnings. We talked about what we write, teach, coach, and struggle with.
It was so sacred. I don't have another group of people like this in my life. To describe it here would never do it justice.
Writing is also a big part of my roots - it has always been a part of my life. Whether I was playing a rhyming game in the car to prepare myself for poetry contests in elementary school or performing "plays" written by yours truly, it was important to me. It made me feel good. Years later, I would recognize writing as my cathartic way of processing that sultry little detail called life.
For example, going through a third knee surgery. Ya dig?
In 2009, after quitting my job based on a morality decision with absolutely zero plans, I found myself with an odd schedule that allowed me to pursue writing further. I entered a creative non-fiction writing class, where we pretty much wrote as we pleased and turned in our work to the teacher, who would then pick some of us to read out loud to the rest of the class.
The first time I was ever picked to read out loud, I had to read something so personal of mine (hey, it was non-fiction, you write what you live), that I cried while I read it. I hadn't shared those thoughts with...anyone, really, before then. I can think of a few favorable moments that were more enjoyable than that one, to say the least. It was, however, my first insight as to what it might be like to share myself with others through writing. My teacher tested me and I knew it. That doesn't mean I didn't want to sink into a puddle while up in front of the class though.
After the class that day, I received countless hugs from fellow writers. They had a story too. We embraced wordlessly, and without knowing one another''s name. I was months out of college, and some of the hugs came from women who had experienced 5 decades more of life than me - they didn't hold it against me though. We just sort of...understood one another. Suddenly, I was connected to people in a way that would remain very special for years to come.
Through that class, a smaller group of us branched off and founded our own writing group. We met weekly in a park on Thursday mornings and shared tales of our lives through story. We cried and laughed and shared snacks, but we listened and critiqued intently. While the stories were personal, the group formed around the writing of the stories, not the living of them. We knew the deepest and darkest of secrets, but we cared about them with grammatical finesse and literal input. Eventually, an even smaller group of us decided we were like-minded and handed enough to form a more specific group.
We are all women who write non-fiction. That's our premise. Those are our roots.
Yesterday, all six of us got together. We celebrated the publishing of one member's book, a book we know well and listened to and gave input on for years. We celebrated a new job, a new move, and new beginnings. We talked about what we write, teach, coach, and struggle with.
It was so sacred. I don't have another group of people like this in my life. To describe it here would never do it justice.
The women asked about my knee, and I realized they were asking about my OTHER knee, the one that had gone through two surgeries before this current journey. I told them they can find out everything they (don't) want to know about it through this self-actualized blogging hobby. Of course, they are supportive.
Something about writing and sitting with these women I have spent so much critical time with in that creative and vulnerable space is so raw. As someone who resides in a small town, is accessible through many different axis', and who has seemingly grown up with the same sets of eyes watching me, I recognize that there is an element of "acting" in my everyday life (and granted, likely in many people's lives). I am reserved and quiet in the gym, but animated and loud on the soccer field. I am professional and organized for those in the necessary setting, but I am horde of tweeny, teary emotion in front of my television set. Writing is the one space I allow a little bit more to show through. Whether that's an act of cowardice or bravery is irrelevant - it's likely neither.
One of the topics that often comes up with this group of women, when the conversation is directed toward me, is the cold feet I got a few years ago when the opportunity presented itself for me to put my writing in the public eye. It is what we pursue, as self-proclaimed writers. Published works. I had compiled my thoughts, struggles, and revelations into a pile of pages of otherwise private moments, and when push came to shove, I backed out. I chose fear of exposure over privilege of a public platform. I wasn't ready. I wasn't comfortable. I have never regretted that decision. That doesn't mean I don't think about it often.
The woman who published her book recently, (Catching Shrimp with Bare Hands), wrote her book based on her husband's experience as a child growing up in Vietnam during the war. It's brilliant. And amazing. And inspirational. That's the thing about writing. It can teach and shed light on events, ideas, and perspectives that we may not normally address. It can become a saving grace for a reader to recognize he/she is not alone. It is exclusive and personal, but also broad and relate-able.
My third knee surgery is trivial in the layout of life. It's a really, really small pocket of time and effort compared to everything else that goes on. And honestly, it's only a small piece of my tears and triumphs in the last 7 months. Writing about it, however, takes me back to my roots. It's a blend between acting and being honest - for those close to me, the experiences that are written solely about my knee are not so coincidentally tied to the other outlying activity in my world. It is my balance and my game for continuing to take myself back to the roots that give me a cathartic space, but also allow me to keep up with not-so-inspiring thoughts - such as the tedious tale of ACL recovery.
One of the things that writing does for me, however, is hold me accountable. It's like a promise in verse. Saying I'll work on my attitude, go to the gym, or eat better to myself does nothing. Saying it to others holds me accountable. Writing it does the same. Imagine if homework was just work we did at home, but never had to turn in. The 4% of students who would operate well on the honor system would certainly blow my mind, but I cannot promise I would be one of them.
It was great timing to reconnect with my writing group this week. I had recently gone old-school (wait for it....) taking literal pen to paper to give some important things written thought. My penmanship and spelling is no where near what I sometimes pretend it is behind type-screen, but I churned out three pages and sealed them. The pages are my accountability partner - they know the goals I set, the promises I made, and the ideas I drew out. They're my roots. It's just new ground that they're growing from. That's what roots are anyway, right? Literally - they're the foundation that holds us up.
I'm my own worst critic. I spend too much time wondering "what if..." and flounder back and forth with absolutes and complete gray areas. I get confused and confuse myself. I stand up for myself and rip myself apart. But very often...I write about that. I get back to my roots. The six women who sat at lunch yesterday...we are MESSED UP on paper. Maybe not all to the same degree or even declarative phrase, but we have lived - different experiences, different amounts of time, and just...differently. We know things about one another that maybe no one else in the world does. That's what writing can create. The rarest and rawest form of honesty. I wish I could claim that description as my actual roots - that I'm bred from inherent honesty and good. But I'm not. I don't have an inspiring message. I don't even have anything funny to say, which is a novelistic and odd place for me to be when it comes to writing.
I'm just doing what I know and writing myself into a little accountability here and there.
And sticking to my roots.
Something about writing and sitting with these women I have spent so much critical time with in that creative and vulnerable space is so raw. As someone who resides in a small town, is accessible through many different axis', and who has seemingly grown up with the same sets of eyes watching me, I recognize that there is an element of "acting" in my everyday life (and granted, likely in many people's lives). I am reserved and quiet in the gym, but animated and loud on the soccer field. I am professional and organized for those in the necessary setting, but I am horde of tweeny, teary emotion in front of my television set. Writing is the one space I allow a little bit more to show through. Whether that's an act of cowardice or bravery is irrelevant - it's likely neither.
One of the topics that often comes up with this group of women, when the conversation is directed toward me, is the cold feet I got a few years ago when the opportunity presented itself for me to put my writing in the public eye. It is what we pursue, as self-proclaimed writers. Published works. I had compiled my thoughts, struggles, and revelations into a pile of pages of otherwise private moments, and when push came to shove, I backed out. I chose fear of exposure over privilege of a public platform. I wasn't ready. I wasn't comfortable. I have never regretted that decision. That doesn't mean I don't think about it often.
The woman who published her book recently, (Catching Shrimp with Bare Hands), wrote her book based on her husband's experience as a child growing up in Vietnam during the war. It's brilliant. And amazing. And inspirational. That's the thing about writing. It can teach and shed light on events, ideas, and perspectives that we may not normally address. It can become a saving grace for a reader to recognize he/she is not alone. It is exclusive and personal, but also broad and relate-able.
My third knee surgery is trivial in the layout of life. It's a really, really small pocket of time and effort compared to everything else that goes on. And honestly, it's only a small piece of my tears and triumphs in the last 7 months. Writing about it, however, takes me back to my roots. It's a blend between acting and being honest - for those close to me, the experiences that are written solely about my knee are not so coincidentally tied to the other outlying activity in my world. It is my balance and my game for continuing to take myself back to the roots that give me a cathartic space, but also allow me to keep up with not-so-inspiring thoughts - such as the tedious tale of ACL recovery.
One of the things that writing does for me, however, is hold me accountable. It's like a promise in verse. Saying I'll work on my attitude, go to the gym, or eat better to myself does nothing. Saying it to others holds me accountable. Writing it does the same. Imagine if homework was just work we did at home, but never had to turn in. The 4% of students who would operate well on the honor system would certainly blow my mind, but I cannot promise I would be one of them.
It was great timing to reconnect with my writing group this week. I had recently gone old-school (wait for it....) taking literal pen to paper to give some important things written thought. My penmanship and spelling is no where near what I sometimes pretend it is behind type-screen, but I churned out three pages and sealed them. The pages are my accountability partner - they know the goals I set, the promises I made, and the ideas I drew out. They're my roots. It's just new ground that they're growing from. That's what roots are anyway, right? Literally - they're the foundation that holds us up.
I'm my own worst critic. I spend too much time wondering "what if..." and flounder back and forth with absolutes and complete gray areas. I get confused and confuse myself. I stand up for myself and rip myself apart. But very often...I write about that. I get back to my roots. The six women who sat at lunch yesterday...we are MESSED UP on paper. Maybe not all to the same degree or even declarative phrase, but we have lived - different experiences, different amounts of time, and just...differently. We know things about one another that maybe no one else in the world does. That's what writing can create. The rarest and rawest form of honesty. I wish I could claim that description as my actual roots - that I'm bred from inherent honesty and good. But I'm not. I don't have an inspiring message. I don't even have anything funny to say, which is a novelistic and odd place for me to be when it comes to writing.
I'm just doing what I know and writing myself into a little accountability here and there.
And sticking to my roots.
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