There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you
“ Maya Angelou
In my first blog, I touched upon my modest ambitions to maybe do some more “serious” writing one day and that I got as far as planning a story and even writing the first chapter.
I was teaching a Year 4 class and i was trying to teach my class how to describe a setting, and a fantasy setting to boot. No easy task I can tell you. I thought it would help the children if I wrote a description to show them. I knocked it up in five minutes and was surprised to find that I got a rush as I was writing it. Then when I showed my colleague what I was planning to do he patted me on the back and exclaimed, “That’s really good Luce! Really good.” I blushed and played it down; all I’d done was follow the rules of writing that I’d been teaching for so long, it had taken me five minutes, I hadn’t even edited it! But, he had lit the fuse.
So, I planned and started to write my story. I even showed the first few chapters to other writers who told me it was good. But then I stopped. Why? Lots of reasons – as previously mentioned I like to have my fingers in lots of metaphorical pies and I think the next pie I stuck my finger in was swimming, which ended up becoming a bit of an obsession, albeit a healthy one. If dig down deep I know the real reason is fear. The overwhelming fear of criticism and rejection and ridicule. I’ve described writing and publishing this blog as akin to going into work with no clothes on. Putting myself out there like this, is TERRIFYING. I also know that rejection is a real part of writing and I’m not sure my skin is thick enough.
On the other hand, once I’ve written something and I publish it I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, like sparks have flown out of the tips of my fingers, like a bubble that has been expanding slowly inside my chest has burst. Like now; the baby is napping and I really ought to be joining her but every time I close my eyes ideas pop into my head and stories scroll across the backs of my eyelids. I’ve got to get it out.
So, sleep will have to wait. And I have to write.