Begin Again

It’s a peculiar thing we do when we have a dream; we forget how to do the very thing we wish to do the most. For years, I have tried to muster the courage to return to my illustrious typewriter, basking now in the light of the morning sun. I have spent many nights dreaming up the worlds I could so eloquently create, if only I had the belief that I could accomplish such a feat.

If only I could write as well as I imagined! If only I could turn the pages into adventures seen in the eyes of readers! 

Often, I would find myself distracted; searching websites for information on the perfect plot line. I would fill my free time reading books under the guise that I was trying to hone my skills. This line of improvement isn’t necessarily wrong, but it never went beyond those “research” stages. 

When I was younger, I found solace in poetry and in allowing myself to express the feelings I held inside. I would fill journals with silly couplets and half-hearted rhymes; words that seemed superfluous and flowery metaphors. I liked the secret of hiding these poems from anyone’s gaze. They were my own private collection, viewed only by me. 

The courage to show anyone my poetry grew out of necessity. I simply could not, and would not, keep this particular event in my life hidden. I knew that others around had similar situations, or oftentimes, worse situations. Therefore, one day I decided to set my thoughts on paper and commit to sharing these secrets with people I barely knew.

I wrote for hours, looking for just the right words to end each line and just the right phrases to explain my overwhelming desire to be heard. I worked on it to make sure the rhythm carried the meaning, and after days of work, it was finally complete.

I was so proud of my effort to create something authentically mine. I was enthusiastic for the opportunity to share it with a group of people, and I hoped that they would enjoy it as much as I did.

The night came to read my poem to a crowded coffee bar full of angsty teenagers ready to read from the journals they brought with them. The first poet who stood up to read was the organizer of the gathering. Her hair was dark and fell into her eyes as she spoke of creative talent and a sense of community in the room. As she began, I was mesmerized by her intonation:

...For one ought

To find the dying night

We were all taught

To turn on the light...

She ended her poem with a small bow and left the stage open for whoever wanted to follow her. A small boy, not much older than 13, got up to the stage and shifted his weight. His glasses, slightly too big for his face, slid down the bridge of his nose, as he struggled to loosen the tension in his shoulders. Soon, his shoulders fell, and he raised his eyes toward the anticipatory crowd:

...Rumbling sounds tore through the hall

I dove beneath the nearest stall

I could hear them coming around the bend

I’m afraid this may be my end...

The boy shuddered and walked back to his seat without waiting for a response from the audience. I knew that I needed to gather the courage to stand up. I knew that I did not have all night to get up and read what I had written, but I couldn’t get my legs to move. My mouth felt dry and my body felt heavy. I could not go up on that stage, sweating and struggling to regulate my breathing. I had to wait and listen. “Just a few more poems and I’ll gain the courage to get up and read,” I thought to myself.

...Time continues to pass

As we amble along

As we look to the mass

And eek out a song…

A girl, with bright blonde hair and piercing eyes took her leave from the stage. By this point I knew my opportunity was quickly dissipating, but I was still unable to will myself up to the stage. There was a break in the stream of constant poets. This was the perfect opportunity for me to stand up and show everyone the work I had done. I just needed to finally stand up and put one leg in front of the other and get myself onto that stage. I had my poem folded into a paper, now damp with the sweat of my palms; I just needed the courage to stand.

I could finally feel the urge to move as the room around me was silent. This was my chance! Now or never! As my foot touched the ground, the organizer stood up and walked briskly to the stage. In that one sliver of a moment, I knew I had lost my chance. I waited too long and I blew my chance to share my poem that I created for this very event. She reached the stage and thanked everyone for their contribution to the collective creative spirit, or whatever else she was saying. I had stopped listening to what was happening around me. I could only hear the voice inside saying that I wasn’t good enough, brave enough, or creative enough to have shared. The voice got progressively more negative as people began to file out of the coffee house. It began to articulate all the reasons I never shared my writing with anyone.

“Your poetry is childish,” the voice of my teacher came back to me.

“You need to focus on building skills,” the voice of my father admonished me.

“Your stuff is sad, write about happy things,” the voice of my sister whined.

The admonishing continued even after the room had emptied. I sat in silence, berated by the constant negative thoughts, until eventually the lights went out. “What a metaphor,” I thought, “The creative light bulb has gone out.”

I walked home trying to quiet the noise in my head; the poem still remained crumpled in my hand. “I will never be able to compare to those people. They have the real talent,” I thought as I tossed the damp paper into the trash. I walked the rest of the way home in silence.

For years I tried to forgive myself for something so trivial. “There would be plenty of poetry events,” I whispered to myself. But, I knew none of it would convince me to try again. In a way, this was my excuse. I never needed to write another word because I had a reason not to write. I held onto that reason as a way to avoid sharing my words with the world, and now even myself.

I stopped writing altogether for many years. My sister bought me a typewriter as a gift, one too many birthdays ago. She thought I’d like to write again, “just like I did when we were kids.” I couldn’t even tell her that she was one of the reasons I don’t write anymore.

That typewriter sits on my desk, alongside a book on creative writing: a gift given to me by my father. The book, just like the typewriter, has never been used. How could it? I had an excuse not to write. Everyone told me I was no good and I wasn’t even able to share what I wrote at a small poetry gathering in a hipster coffee shop. Besides, I haven’t amounted to much in life and I have nothing important to say.

The years have passed and I still have yet to sit at my desk or attempt to write out my thoughts. But, something peculiar has begun to bubble up. I can feel the urge to create. I can feel the desire to say what’s on my mind. I cannot start now. I am much too old to write anything of substance now. I’ve grown weary over the years and have learned many lessons along the way, but none of them feel right to tell. None of the stories within me ar4e worthy enough to be immortalized on the pages before me. That was, until I saw a familiar face; one much different from the round faced, shy boy with glasses too big for him, that I remember. He passed by my shop today. I’m positive it was him. I could tell by the slightly off-cadence walk he had and his eyes that showed a hint of the past. 

I remember the anticipation of that evening. I remember how brave he was to stand up in front of everyone, despite his nerves. The memories of that night come flooding back to me all at once. I remember my desire, I remember my voice, and I remember his courage, as I sit down at my desk, and begin again.