A Piece of My Heart

I joined a writers guild this past winter. We make an interesting combination of people, coming from a wide range of backgrounds and having a wide variety of experience with writing. We’re retirees, teachers, published novelists, bloggers, mothers, travellers, locals, and transplants, but we’re united by a desire to find more consistency in our writing practice.

One lady comes to each meeting wishing, and promising, to write more, but never seeming to actually do so. “I’m getting older,” she half joked once. “If I don’t do it now, I might not have the chance.” She mentioned some beautiful, large trees outside her retirement home that would make a nice place to sit under to write. She lives just a block from me. She’s never out writing when I walk or drive by. Once, she was watering flowers as I passed with the stroller. I resisted the urge to yell, “Lil! Go write!”

 

Thus, the impetus for this blog. I don’t want to get to a point, further down my road, to find I’m filled with the regret of not writing with no one to blame but my own lack of consistency. So here we are.

At one of the early Writers Guild meetings we talked about vulnerability, and people shared some truly human stories about the struggles associated with putting their writing out into the world.

At that meeting I shared a brief poem on the subject, and, in the spirit of writing, and sharing, regularly, I now share it here. At least in theory, it all gets easier with practice:

A Piece of My Heart

When my writing is

polished, done, and released out

into the world my

stomach ties in knots; rapid

breathing. Instinct? Find. cover.

 

 

But I force myself:

lean into the wave; embrace

vulnerability. Swim.

Swim. Sharing is so scary

because it matters deeply.

 

 

Opening the doors

to my experiences,

I’m giving you, Dear

Reader, a piece of my heart

And when I do, the magic

 

 

happens. The first time –

Eight years old, a short story

about a brown cow

won third – a local contest.

My mom read it to cousins

 

 

She sat at our old

desktop. I, lay on the floor,

my head buried in

a pillow, willing myself

not to run away. Be. Share.

 

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