Chasing Dreams - Do the Work

I have a memory from when I was 11 years old, it’s vague but not difficult to recall even now forty plus years later. Actually, it’s the feelings and my emotions that I can recall with clarity, the details of the event I only hold snippets of.

I lived on a small island in the north west of Western Australia - Cockatoo Island for those interested. The primary school I attended at that time only had roughly 20 students, from grades one through to grade six. I was in grade six at this time. My teacher, Mr Hunt, had set a task for my grade (all three of us I believe) to write a story one to two pages long in our small lined exercise book.

When I hit page twelve of my story I thought I should probably consider wrapping it up even though I could have kept going because I was loving the story, the characters, how it was evolving, and where it was taking me as a writer. Obviously as an 11 year old I didn’t have the insight I do now. I was just caught up in something I was enjoying and let it flow.

I remember Mr Hunt talking to me about my story, he was blown away by it. He asked me where I thought the characters would be going if it progressed, how I came up with the concept, why I chose it, and he’d like to read more.

I remember blushing and feeling awkward at being praised so unashamedly, especially in front of the school. Mind you, inside I was dancing with joy and happiness at having something I was proud of being recognised. The depth of emotion that an 11 year old me felt wasn’t something I was aware of at that time, it certainly wasn’t something I would have been able to articulate. In my shyness I most likely would have shrugged, blushed, and dismissed it.

Age, wisdom, life experience, and that memory staying with me, allowed me to explore it more deeply. It has let me recognise my responses, thoughts, and it’s impact on me moving through the years between then and now.

I believe that was the first time in my life I realised I could write something that caused people to react, to be interested in, or respond to. Mr Hunt was one of my heroes at that time, like most good teachers are. In the small community I lived in he was an integral part of it. To be acknowledged, engaged with, and praised wasn’t a familiar experience to me, but it made me proud of myself, the earliest I can remember feeling that way, and being my own cheer squad.

I’ve toyed with writing on and off throughout the years that followed. There’s been times when I’ve had to stop writing to protect myself and family members. My writing is sometimes incredibly personal, there’s been times others have used it against me, and I was too young or inexperienced to come up with an alternative so I stopped writing instead. My response to that now would be vastly different, probably quite loud, vocal, and include a plethora of expletives. I’ve also stopped writing in the past because I was angry with others and felt betrayed when my words were read without my consent. Again, the inexperience of youth, I thought I was punishing them by not writing so they couldn’t read my words. In actual fact I was wounding myself and stifling an outlet that helped me cope, heal, and grow. Age and wisdom have me sitting here reading this back shaking my head at the time wasted when I could have written. When we know better, we do better, right.

The past twelve years I’ve been inconsistently active in writing, but it’s been the most I’ve done in all the phases and stages of my life. I started by blogging on blogspot - I had three blogs there covering different topics, then wrote some pieces for a blogging association I belonged to, and then I started my own website. I’ve since replaced that website, while trauma has silenced me for a while as well. Now, following another website do-over, deleting a lot of content, I’m back with a plan.

Sometimes when you look back on your journey, your experiences, where you’ve come from to be where you are now, you can actually see the path you’ve taken. Mine is certainly a winding one, lots of tangents shooting off, and coming back, circles and back tracking, and I’m ultimately where I am now.

Why is that significant?

I look back and see that writing has been my escape, my freedom, my healing, and growth. It’s been a place I have raged, I have cried, I have shared, and I have confessed. It’s also a place I’ve hidden, I’ve concealed, and I’ve even buried some of my demons.
Now I see writing as my truth. It’s my way of having conversations with people I haven’t met yet, may never meet, but may be able to connect with through my words, my experiences, my descriptions, my doing the word thing to paint a picture even.

For several years I tried to deny that I want to be a writer, that I should be a writer, that it’s my ‘dream’. I don’t think I’m good at it, but I enjoy it so I do it anyway. When people have complimented me on it I’ve just thought they were being nice to engage me in conversation, or they thought it was the right thing to do. How unfair and arrogant of me, and how judgemental of me towards those people and their intentions who’ve taken the time to say nice things. I apologise and see the genuineness of it now. And I am incredibly grateful. You see, I want to be a writer. And I don’t want it to be a dream, I want it to be a reality. So, I have to do something about that. This is where the work comes in.

It’s easy to say you want to be something, but until you do the work it will always be a whisper in the wind, a declaration unheard, and bullshit. I guess I’ve got to the stage where I don’t want that anymore. So I am starting the work. I’ve completed my first writing course and have others lined up in a sequence I know I will enjoy as I move through them, learn, practice, and become better at my craft.

I’m glad you’ve read this far.

Let me re-introduce myself to you… I’m Deb, and I’m a writer.