Scaring the Artist out of You
I once read; a writer feels everything twice, once in the moment, then again, when they write about it. (Like the first time wasn’t emotional enough?!) Perhaps it’s a writer’s karma? In order to reach people, we must first, delve into the intensity of life and somehow put words to the experience. Hoping, that someone, somewhere, will feel effected by the work. I am sure every artist has his or her own fate to explore. But I finally accept this as mine.
Yet, I stumbled with the concept; “I am a writer”. Who gave me the permission to call myself a writer? I am not good enough for that! Which is when I realized, to make my creativity real, I would have to take myself, seriously. Best way to do that? Shake my comfy bubble, and scare myself senseless. I joined a writers group. I figured, to overcome the fear, I’d submerge myself amongst the best.
At my first meeting, I sat among eight strangers, all bonded by a common love for the written word. Peers, who “knew” more than me. (Just a little intimidating). Our mandate was to read one piece of writing. Funny, up until that moment, I dreamed about reading to crowds of people. Suddenly, I was too embarrassed to even mutter my own name. See, it’s one thing to be an anonymous writer, unaware of the reader. It’s another, to expose your vulnerability in public.
It was my turn. I contemplated leaving. I considered the ol “oh I forgot to bring something” routine. They looked smarter than me, so I was pretty sure they’d be able to call my bluff. My critic pulled in tight. My book didn’t feel as strong or witty as it did when I read it to the mirror at home? I frantically tried to change words and concepts in my mind, thinking anything would sound better than what I had already wrote.
But with sixteen eyeballs starting my way, I had no choice but to read. I concentrated on my imperfections, vs. the material. I read from my head instead of my heart, fumbling word after word. So I stopped. Cleared my voice and said “screw it!” (in my head). And just went for it. I began reading as the writer, the one who once experienced the story, then wrote about it. Fear, my fuel.
When I got home, an email from the leader awaited; “it was great having you at our group. You are a brave woman for baring your soul to strangers. Fun isn't it!”. And it was. The experience was totally exhilarating! It’s amazing what happens when you let that part of you come to life.
It takes courage to embrace your inner artist. We all have one inside of us, searching for an outlet to shine. Most of us ignore it though; push it away like an insignificant voice. Not useful for “real life”. It never occurred to me that art wasn’t a right, but rather an expression. We all have the right to express. And funnily enough, here I am, feeling it for the second time, and writing about it all over again. I guess I am a writer afterall.
© Desiree Daniel June 15, 2005
Yet, I stumbled with the concept; “I am a writer”. Who gave me the permission to call myself a writer? I am not good enough for that! Which is when I realized, to make my creativity real, I would have to take myself, seriously. Best way to do that? Shake my comfy bubble, and scare myself senseless. I joined a writers group. I figured, to overcome the fear, I’d submerge myself amongst the best.
At my first meeting, I sat among eight strangers, all bonded by a common love for the written word. Peers, who “knew” more than me. (Just a little intimidating). Our mandate was to read one piece of writing. Funny, up until that moment, I dreamed about reading to crowds of people. Suddenly, I was too embarrassed to even mutter my own name. See, it’s one thing to be an anonymous writer, unaware of the reader. It’s another, to expose your vulnerability in public.
It was my turn. I contemplated leaving. I considered the ol “oh I forgot to bring something” routine. They looked smarter than me, so I was pretty sure they’d be able to call my bluff. My critic pulled in tight. My book didn’t feel as strong or witty as it did when I read it to the mirror at home? I frantically tried to change words and concepts in my mind, thinking anything would sound better than what I had already wrote.
But with sixteen eyeballs starting my way, I had no choice but to read. I concentrated on my imperfections, vs. the material. I read from my head instead of my heart, fumbling word after word. So I stopped. Cleared my voice and said “screw it!” (in my head). And just went for it. I began reading as the writer, the one who once experienced the story, then wrote about it. Fear, my fuel.
When I got home, an email from the leader awaited; “it was great having you at our group. You are a brave woman for baring your soul to strangers. Fun isn't it!”. And it was. The experience was totally exhilarating! It’s amazing what happens when you let that part of you come to life.
It takes courage to embrace your inner artist. We all have one inside of us, searching for an outlet to shine. Most of us ignore it though; push it away like an insignificant voice. Not useful for “real life”. It never occurred to me that art wasn’t a right, but rather an expression. We all have the right to express. And funnily enough, here I am, feeling it for the second time, and writing about it all over again. I guess I am a writer afterall.
© Desiree Daniel June 15, 2005
posted by Desiree Daniel @ 4:26 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home