An Introduction to My Departure
I do not delight in being new here. I feel the giants among me as one does approaching any field where people acquire expertise. I feel a need to account for who I was and who I am so the reader will appreciate how I intend to end my tenure here.
As a child, I had a talent for language and love of words which was a maternal legacy. I branched off from school work to begin composing poetry, songs, and even a play. I read feverishly, piling book after finished book in my room. I was reckoning with a frightening destiny: I was a writer. I was eager to catch every idea, every character trait that materialized in my overactive mind. But this was coupled with a crippling fear of loss. I would forget that clever poetry line and felt regretful I could not retrieve it. Gone and mourned, I had trouble moving on. I would often stop short in a poem because the next lines did not come. Anxious and disappointed, I kept the lighthouse beacon on for each scrap of paper waiting for the remainder to reach land. Most never did. I started carrying paper and pencil everywhere, so that once a drop came down, I was prepared to catch it. But when there is a downpour, it is impossible to capture everything. My adolescent body was not nearly as fast, nor as mature as to let go of what I could not reach.
The only way, I reasoned, was to build dams in my mind. Wait, wait, wait… I’d think. I held it back until I could get home. Just wait until we’re in the car. But then there’d be no writing implements and those lines would slip away. Eventually, the dams worked remarkably well and nothing like that first magic came at all. Bitter and angry with myself, the only outlets were school essays. These were rigid places, though, and there was no room for even the little poetry I could muster. Be concise. MLA format, please.
Over the years, I unconsciously found ways to write. I composed administrative policy, technical standards, process improvement proposals, and organizational documents. I found ways to tango with language and be very specific. Grammar, syntax, composition, no redundancy, please. It was satisfying but there was still that long lost shame of how I cast out my creative voice.
It was only in therapy I explored, in a real way, the false dichotomy of scientist and creative. The two could not exist. I did not have room for both. This division set in after my block started. An immigrant’s daughter could not be a writer anyway. I had dug into the analytical part of myself and left creativity behind. When the resolution finally came and the lie exposed, I was freed. The drip started slowly. One short story. A shitty slam poem I later deleted. A clever adage. There was much to do in the meantime, so I didn’t wait with bated breath. I didn’t expect the downpour to ever come back. A few very good stories came but it was not consistent. I was still hung up on being accurate or being compelling. I dared not think of the word “prolific”, lest I never return to writing at all.
I recently began attending a writing group and it was a far departure from where I was as a child. I remember wanting to be someone else and have their voice. I remember a writing composition class where I was ashamed to share my piece. It wasn’t nearly as good. This time, prompt after prompt, I was glad to show my contribution and could appreciate a voice other than my own without covetousness.
The words and stories are no longer raindrops I’m struggling to catch, but flurries of moving pictures all around me that I can catch on my tongue. The flavor is memory I can revisit again, with no fear of forgetting. My writing now is an Indiana Jones leap of faith, where I am almost sure the next stone will rise up to meet my feet as I craft something unknown in the dark. It is still early, but I really believe this is the writer I am.
“What are you reading for inspiration?”
While I admit I must commit to more reading to make me better, the first visage of a story can come from dozing off, the sound of a French horn, the new leaf on a plant, and even the pounding of my fingers against this keyboard. It’s a skill I let exist instead of obsessively try to control.
It’s funny how we can fear endings and rarely start. This time, I am conscious of cycles and that things must end. Winter is not death, but an essential stage before germination. I used to be mired in completionism, never starting because the hurdles to the next word or line seemed too high. I step over hurdles now and give the rest of a story the chance to be born with the blemish of a blank space where an idea will eventually go.
Part of me doesn’t want to enjoy my tenure here, however. Despite what I have learned, I will one day look upon this, the articles that may come, and the drafts I never release, feeling a sense of failure. I did not achieve something notable. Part of me wants to spit on this page, this profile, before it becomes part of the archive. This collection will end someday and I am learning to live in the moment. I am still learning to let go. I make no promises to the reader or myself.
Chapters of my own anxiety seem to be closing. Borders between parts of self are broken down. I can stand in my voice with confidence. I can let a line exist without expectation. All genres are mine.
I suppose now that I am no longer afraid of where this goes or who it reaches, though I hope it speaks to someone, at least one. For as long as I am here, thanks for having me.
