For those who know me, writing has always been difficult, painful. The strongest memory I have of how hard it is was in junior high. We had to keep a writing journal for my English class. I wasn’t one of those girls who kept a diary. It was far too dangerous in my household. I have suffered from depression since I was 10 years old. Yes, 10-year-olds can be depressed. My thoughts were dark. I was a fat child, and I was smart. Both my parents were teachers. I was brought up to be nice to my teachers. Bad combination for a child. Several of my classmates picked on me because of it. I’m not saying this to be “victim”. It’s just what was. The thought of putting my thoughts and feelings down on paper at that time terrified me. I remember my teacher had a run-in with my parents earlier in the year about something I had written, and the interaction had not gone well for any of us. My teacher might read about the pain I was feeling, and then where would I be? Picked on and ridiculed even more? Worse yet, I might be called on to read entries aloud. Then all my world would know…
Then there was the paper in high school. I received a ‘D’. I can’t remember if the grammar was poor or I was writing using a stream-of-conscious format that I lapse into on occasion. But in a family of educators, a ‘D’ was unacceptable. My father decided he would “teach” me about proper writing. As I look back on my education, I don’t remember being taught formal grammar. We moved a lot when I was younger. I don’t know if I missed it in the transitions, the schools didn’t teach it, or I simply can’t remember those lessons. To this day, I couldn’t diagram a sentence if my life depended on it. I still stumble over adverbs and adjectives. All I know about conjunctions is that they string sentences together to create really horribly long run-on sentences that are so popular in speaking these days.
Life after the ‘D’ was dismal and bleak. Days was filled with having all my papers scrutinized for proper structure, grammar, spelling, and content. I was drilled on proper writing techniques. I am stubborn. I inherited from both sides of my family, especially my father’s. I hated the writing sessions. I never brought home another ‘D’ for writing. I became an excellent academic writer. But it silenced my writing voice. I had to drag every written word from my brain onto the page every time I wrote a paper. I agonized over every thought, word, and sentence. What it grammatically correct? Did it convey my thoughts and ideas accurately? Did it have the level of complexity and sophistication necessary for an academic endeavor? Were the words “big” and precise enough? Was the paper sterile and objective enough, stripped of my personal form of writing? I was so terrified of writing that I would wait until the last minute to write my papers in college, just so I would be forced to write whatever came to mind and couldn’t spend hours agonizing over the words.
Even as an adult, my brain would freeze at the thought of writing. The thought of people seeing my words on paper, having them know what I thought, was enough to envelop my mind in a swirling fog. Even the simplest words couldn’t find daylight. I remember giving a speech to one of my Toastmaster’s clubs talking about the difficulty I had with giving life to my words. The first line of the speech was “I stand before you mute.” My speech evaluator wondered how she would evaluate an almost silent speech. Nancy Richard, a F/friend and poet I know, led us through a writing exercise at a women’s conference. It was hard, almost excruciating, putting words to paper. But she encouraged us to keep writing, telling us that eventually the words would come through. I kept writing, despite the fog and the agony.
Amazingly, despite all of my struggles, I’ve been published. Writing some of the pieces were like pulling teeth, others like giving birth. Most of it is confined to a small circle of people know as Quakers. But my words have touched people nationwide, maybe even people internationally. It’s a start. Some people even remember and been touched by what I wrote. I’m always amazed. And now I have a blog. I never thought I’d ever consider writing for the public. It has taken me seven years and three attempts to get this far.
Why does this come up now? I’m considering writing a book. Once again, I am struggling to find my voice. But my struggle takes a different form this time. I have my all-important book concept. I know what I want to write about. I even have an outline. OMG, I’m organized even before I start writing!! I’ve started the research and know where I need to do more . The universe is answering me by providing me the appropriate resources as I approach each section. The first two chapters are strong, sharp, crisp. Oddly, I find the writing easier. I don’t know if it is because I’ve finally said allowed the words to find a voice or I’ve shed most of the old messages about how bad my writing once was.
But the struggle I have this time is about finding my true writing voice.