Months ago I signed up for a creative nonfiction course that began this week. At the time (and I guess even still, though now laced with more anxiety), I thought it might help me find my long-lost muse, or my MIA mojo, or just some good ol' inspiration to start writing again. But walking in the door of that community education classroom Monday evening was absolutely terrifying.
:: CUE THE NERVOUS SWEATS ::
It was then that I discovered that it's a very small class. You guys. You realize what that means, don't you? It means I can't hide in the corner, keep my mouth shut, and write to-do lists during "free write" time because I can't find any real words.
Shit.
It's weird. I miss my voice, and yet I think I'm terrified of actually finding it.
While I sit here procrastinating on homework and berating myself for not following a daily writing prompt, I figured I'd share a few words I did pen in class.
After reading a sampling of authors' "Why I Write" essays, we were asked to write our own. In typical me fashion, mine is definitely not long enough to constitute an essay, but it does sum up the core essence of why I write.
“I write to give even just one other person the matchless gift of going second.
By being vulnerable with my own story, I hope to make others feel safe, courageous, and empowered to give voice to their own stories. All of us at times just need to hear someone else say the words we haven’t yet been able to find to capture our experiences, our heartaches, our most deep-seated fears. And hearing them draws from within us a “me too” as our hearts open the vault of letters and words and sentences that had been locked away inside.
I write to stir that kind of “me too”...
I use my words so that others more freely and bravely use theirs. ”