As I was
pondering this contest, I was overwhelmed with the number of things I could say
on the subject. A mountain of thoughts surfaced, obscuring clarity. And so I waited until some clear shape rose
above the peaks. Finally the full moon emerged.
Like the
moon, I went through at least four phases as a writer, each one with elements
of doubt.
The New Moon
I’ve known I
wanted to be a writer since 3rd grade, when I copied an entire book
verbatim, turned it in to my teacher and said, “Look what I wrote!” Her
response: “You wrote this?”
And I was
like, can’t you tell that’s my handwriting? You ought to recognize it by now as
many times as you’ve made me write, “I must not talk in school.”
Back then I
yearned to say something, but didn’t have anything of my own to say. I had
little or no light to reflect, like the new moon.
The Waxing Moon
But over
time more light emerges. The lunar sliver
begins to reveal itself. This is the
phase where I began to develop my own thoughts little by little, and so I spent
a good bit of time licking stamps and sending my work out into the universe. With every rejection, doubt increased. But
with every acceptance, doubt diminished.
One day I
received an invitation to speak at an upcoming conference called Women Writers: Making the Difference,
sponsored by the NC Literary and Historical Association. I was a sliver of crescent among a sky of
full moons shining in all their glory.
Maya Angelou, keynoter, owned the auditorium when she stood to speak. A hush fell over the place as she captured us with her story. She was a bright harvest moon.
It was a defining
moment for me, seeing that glow and recognizing something of myself in
her. Realizing that we writers, if true
to our call, will overcome our doubts and surmount our obstacles, somehow or
another.
First Quarter
During first quarter, ½ of the
moon is visible for half the evening, then goes down, leaving the sky dark.
After my
literary writing stint, I teamed up with my musician husband and went into the
songwriting business. We wrote, recorded, hit the road, and performed our music
wherever doors were open.
One
September we were called to minister at Aqueduct Conference Center with the
Ragamuffin himself, Brennan Manning. That’s when I heard the clear call to go within and find what
compelled me to write.
“Then one
day, just like that” (to quote Forest Gump), I told our agent I needed a
break. I needed space. I needed solitude
and quiet. That’s when he and his wife left the house (almost in a huff), never
to return. And my songwriting career came to a grinding halt. Just like
that.
The Waxing Gibbous (contemplative
phase)
I never
doubted the call to write. Whoever sits down and writes is a writer, good, bad, or ugly. Poor or rich. Unknown, little
known, or well known. But the writers
who truly have something to say are those who have heeded Rilke’s advice:
“You
are looking outward, and that above all you should not do now…There is only one
single way. Go into yourself… and see what compels you to write.”
It’s one
thing to have something to say. It’s
quite another to have to say something.
It was in the contemplative phase – which became more than a phase; it became a
lifestyle – that I began overcoming writerly doubts in earnest because I was
finally asking myself the important questions:
“What is it
that you must write? What were you called to write? What were you born to write?”
The Full Moon
Writer’s
doubt faded like a pair of old jeans when I stopped comparing myself with
writers who’d “made it…” Because what
did true success mean anyway? I had to
redefine what success meant and what it didn’t mean. It didn’t mean that I should write for the
market. It didn’t mean that I should emulate the voices of others who’d made
it. It didn’t mean I’d ever make a fortune.
What it did
mean is that I told my particular truth, just as those I admired most had
done. And though I never compared myself
with Maya Angelou or Brennan Manning or Frank McCourt, I came to realize from
reading their words that we’ve all stumbled in the dark and fallen flat on our
faces.
They were
successful only because their themes were universal, even if their stories were
unique. They never told me the moon was shining, but I could clearly see “the
glint of light on broken glass” - in the context of broken vessels.
We’re all familiar
with pain and rejection, disappointment and despair, and sometimes abject
poverty. We’ve all suffered and bled and
died a thousand little deaths. And lived to tell about it. So that others could feel and share in our grief
and joy, could laugh and cry with us and feel less alone in this world.
What about you? Who helped you overcome
your writer doubts?
