The End of a Good Thing

I guess all good things must come to an end. Why is that, anyway?

Last night was the last meeting of the creative writing class that Bard and I were taking. I'm bummed, yes. I don't know, I guess it was just this wonderful feeling I had that Bard and I were going to have a night out, that we were taking our artists on a date (have you read The Artist's Way?) and spending time with each other, Mother-and-Daughter-like. It was a time to rejuvenate and learn from other women as well as a time to share a bit of ourselves.

That part, for the first time in my life, was hard for me. Our instructor is a published author many times over, and I often walked away, after reading my stuff, feeling like "just another writer wannabe." I don't know why. I guess if I don't get lavished with praise, I feel like I've failed. Yeah, I'm that sensitive.

Writing has always been a part of my life; from the time I was able to put words on paper, I was writing stories about my world. My very first story, at least the first that I can remember, was at five years old. I wrote about my mother going to the hospital. It turned out that the hospital would be familiar territory for me because of my mom's frequent visits there for physical and mental emergencies. It also turned out that writing would be good therapy for it.

But anymore, I feel like I have a harder time flexing my writing muscles. Maybe I'm more particular. Maybe I'm losing touch. I struggle a bit harder to find "that word." I see many bits of inspiration but don't get to the paper in time to flesh them out. I have awesome ideas but can't seem to get from here to there.

I guess that's part of why I'm sad that the writing class is over. It was so pregnant with possibility and I was sure I would emerge from it a better writer, a person with something in hand that would wow the masses. In the back of my mind, I was calling forth that little writer I've always supressed, told to wait, convinced that there would be a season for her to break forth and bloom. And now, where is she? Where is that five-year-old muse? Come forth, I bid thee, young writer! Come forth!

I've been kicking around the idea of starting a Christian Writers' Group. What's holding me back? Fear and dread. That's a whole post of its own. (NOTE TO VICTORIA: I'm in Amish Country. While I'd love you to attend, I'm sure it's too far for you to drive. You're welcome to come, though...if I start it!)

So, I guess I'm still looking for some guts.

But mostly, I'm just grieving over the end of a good thing.