Thinking Out Loud

“I tend not to write about what’s currently going on in my life as if writing it will make living it less real.” I wrote this a few days ago. I’m now going to contradict myself by telling you, in clear language, what happened this evening.
In writing class tonight, I gave out copies of a poem I wrote thirteen years ago. I read it aloud and when I finished, a deep sigh spread over the table. They liked it. The teacher had nothing critical to say. I saw my poem as the seed of a book geared toward an audience of younger only children. She disagreed. She sees it as the start of a young adult book. She showed me where the break in time is between the child speaking and the grown up reflecting, said I should fill in the story there, if I was willing to tell that part of my life.
In my head I saw pages and pages of story I would have to sit down and write to get to what she was suggesting. I almost wanted to give it up then, but the other day, about 6 months ago, I decided to step it up a notch and do more than practice at this obsession called writing.
The interesting thing is, the story she suggested is the one and only book idea I’ve ever had. It’s been a brewing passion for years, waiting for the right time, namely, me to be ready to sit down and write with a mind available to give up the details. So there it is. A poem I wrote thirteen years ago may have become the seed of that book I have, for a long time, been intimidated to begin.
When I signed up for this writing class, I intended to learn to write for children. To me this meant books like I read to my boys at bed time. “The Quiltmakers Gift,” “The Seven Silly Eaters,” “The Giving Tree.” Instead, I’m learning skills, information, perspective I can apply to writing my book. I didn’t realize books for young adults was under the umbrella of “writing for children.”
Maybe I’ve been thinking my own kids would need to be grown before I could start. Maybe I simply wanted to eat chocolate, bake cookies and run the vacuum instead of carve out thirty minutes, one hour or even two each day to write for a single (not small) project because I picture myself going thoughtless every day as soon as I reach the keyboard. That would mean failure. “Better to keep such aspirations just out of reach,” I must have thought, though never in hearing range of my conscious mind.
If I can find a couple hours each day to keep an assignment I pulled out of the air (to write thirty posts in thirty days), then when day thirty has passed, I can surely find at least half an hour a day to hammer through the pages of a book I’ve been wanting to write for years.
What happens on the page once I get started, I must not try to predict. I must simply show up and make an effort.
Recently, I’ve been seeking help with grammar, punctuation and clarity as well as taking a break and reading aloud before hitting publish. I love the results. As it’s too late at night to bounce this off someone else right now, I’m not sure how it reads.
If you have a comment to share, please be kind. I’m not looking for advice. I just needed to make myself accountable.