childhood dreams

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a writer. My third grade teacher introduced me to this great idea of creating fascinating stories. She said that one day, I could write a fascinating story, too. And ever since then, I've been dreaming of being a writer.

Last night, while watching Eat Pray Love, all I could think about was that dream. And I remembered what someone once told me: If you want to write, write. Everyday. Write.

In my last semester of college, my writing professor and advisor told me that I needed to find my voice, and release her. He said that the only person holding me back was me. He told me to let go. To sit in a quiet place, my favorite place, and listen to that voice that's inside of me. And let her out.

Everyday, for a month, after that meeting, I sat in the playground up the street from where I used to live. And I wrote. I wrote so much that month. At the end of the semester, I submitted my final poem for our Advanced Poetry Class. And to my dismay, my writing crush* was assigned to be my critic. I remember how nervous I was during the last day of class when I had to read my poem aloud, and he had to give me a review in front of everyone.

But, to my surprise, he gave me a good review. Actually, he loved my poem. But what I'll never forget was afterwards he stopped me outside of class (he never spoke to me outside of class before ... come to think of it, we only had one other conversation before this), and he told me that finally, I let my voice out. (I didn't even think he thought I had a voice at all.) And he said he never related to a girl the way he related to my narrator. I was in Cloud 9! My writing crush actually loved my poem!

The thing is I don't think I ever read that poem out loud again. I haven't read to a crowd since then. My voice actually went back in hiding. Became lost once again. But last night, I heard her. During the movie. I heard her. In a way I haven't heard her in a long, long time.

I still want to be a writer. And I know the only one stopping me is me. So, I will write. Everyday. I will write. Until that voice, my voice, is free again.


*My writing crush wrote these descriptive, eloquent poems with words I didn't know could sound so beautiful put together. I loved his poetry. I still do. I've kept all of them. I remember always feeling a tad bit jealous that he could express himself the way he did. I remember he was always in class early, with his head down, writing in this little book. Our one conversation was when I asked him about that book, and he let me in on his secret - how he comes up with those beautifully crafted and sensually descriptive poems. But sorry, I can't tell his secret. :)

*photo via wehearit