The Towns Along the Way

Here's something you might experience, the way it happened to me.

When I read my first sentence to the Group in my first meeting (yes, that's correct, one sentence. Maybe it was two.) I had great anxiety that I, in that brief but telling moment, exposed myself as a fraud with zero talent or potential, let alone skill.  They would probably think I wandered into the wrong room.  "Oh, turn left?" I would say.

But, no.  They were all supportive.  Encouraging. Asked about whether it was the beginning of a novel or a short story or did I know yet?  "Fictional memoir," I said.  "Uh huh," they said.  I regularly brought more and more offerings, from postcard stories to light verse, and people seemed to like them.

They wouldn't let me say everyone else in the Group is so much better than me, (uh, which they are but we're not supposed to say it).  I wondered then and sometimes now, what am I doing here anyway?  I'm learning, all right, but what am I contributing?  Do I belong?

Then (drum roll), I wrote an 800-word short story that took several weeks to complete and aspired to be a mixture of Alice Munro, Anton Chekhov and Elmore Leonard. Maybe Hemmingway.  Maybe not better, and maybe not quite as good even but, you know, up there.

I thought it was pretty good, thank you very much, and they liked it.  Except, after I completed it and re-read it, and no one suggested a place it might be published, I knew Alice M. could rest easily.  The story had its moments, certainly, but there were grand canyon gaps and a general awkwardness. Structurally it was weak, or over-reaching, or just clumsy.

My skill could not bear the weight of my striving.

Then, finally, after torturing everyone around me, and missing blog posting dates (sorry), I came to the realization that the 'writing is a journey' metaphor really does hold up.  That there are towns I just pass through (probably children's' stories in my case) and towns I camp on the outskirts of, towns with houses to rent or to think about buying some day.

But it's far too early to buy one now.  Just because something didn't work this time, doesn't mean I can't wander around town again, or move to another town, or maybe both.

Mind blowing lack of stupendous success is not a permanent condition.  Nor does it define me forever.  It's a town.  A good town, perhaps even if it is not my town.  Or my neighbourhood in the right town.  

The trick is to keep journeying with an optimistic view even when your heart is hurting.  Or you're angry with yourself.  Or feel like a fraud.

There are two main things that differentiate people from other animals.  Only people think about the future in any serious way.  And only people write.