A few days ago, I got an email from a Write Practice regular who said she had recently gotten a job writing a weekly column and was expanding her freelance writing business. “The Write Practice, and it’s great community, have been a big part of that,” she said. “I’ve learned skills and gained confidence that have been invaluable.”
It’s good to hear feedback like this. Sometimes I wonder, “Does The Write Practice really work? Are we making a difference?”
Writers are in constant struggle to come up with the new and unique. Keeping our long history and language boundaries in mind, this is no easy task and only adds more to the daily doses of writers’ anxiety. It’s especially true in moments when you’ve just had “the idea” – the one you were convinced was radically new – and after a quick research you realized it’s as old as your town square.
Thankfully, there are many ways to be ‘new’. Form, style, topic, voice – all these matter; however, sometimes only one of them will do.
There have been too many days when I didn’t know what to write about. I sat here waiting… waiting… waiting, but nothing came to me.
I used to think that some mornings I just wasn’t meant to write anything. Inspiration did not visit me, and instead I wasted hours drinking cold coffee while staring blankly at my computer screen.
Well, frankly, that sucked. So I started something new.
I attended my sister’s college graduation this weekend. Traveling back to my own alma mater, drinking in the springtime air and clusters of brightly blooming flowers, the buzz of excitement and energy, was good for the soul.
But it also made me think about those times in life—like graduation—that are simply bittersweet. The good comes with the not-so-good. Reaching a new point means letting go of what’s come before.
And it made me ponder why writing about bittersweet moments is so good, so deliciously satisfying.
A few years ago I taught at a high school with a strong Arts program. At the end of the school year, the fruits of students’ labour were put up for sale in a silent auction. I remember walking through the room, mouth agape and eyes bulging in awe of the talent I saw.
Later in the staff room a colleague and I, both of us English teachers, both aspiring authors, were fawning over the accomplishments of our students and I remember saying, “I wish I had talent like that.” My colleague assured me that I did. When I protested that I couldn’t even draw a wiggly line, she said to me, “You’re an artist; you paint word pictures.”
It was a moment of epiphany, one that’s stayed with me to this day.
