A Writer's Belonging

Libby clutched her leather bound journal to her. Her palms perspired on the cover and she occasionally had to wipe her hands on her jeans to no avail. She was quivering just in front of two double doors that seemed to tower over her, threatening her wordlessly against her entering. Libby's round, owl-like eyeglasses fogged up and she removed them with shaky fingers to read the sign on the door.

"Writer's Circle Meetings Here! Newcomers Always Welcome!"

Libby found the sign, as her heart was beating in terror inside her, to be a bit contradictory. Even though she'd come her of her own accord, she all of a sudden felt like the community center around her was too cramped. It was liked she was trapped in a tiny room with no doors, even though the exits were labeled in red. Libby's throat tightened to warn of incoming tears. And sure enough, they began to brim the corners of her sapphire eyes. They were quivering in her sockets and ready to fall at any moment.

What if they hate what I have to say? What if the other writers are more experienced than I am? What if I'm not cut out for this? Maybe I'm not cut out for writing at all, her mind raced.

Before she could run away and never come back, a figure bumped into her from behind and she could hear a soft apology among her mind's disarray.

Libby stumbled back, already being made up in her mind. She was prepared to run out the center's front door when a voice stopped her.

"Are you lost?"

With trembling limbs that wanted to move for her, she turned to the person in front of her. It was another woman. She was older than her, probably in her early forties. She had blonde and graying hair that was in a long, elegant style. They were paired with two kind eyes with wrinkles around them from smiling. She wore a bright red sundress with lipstick to match. She looked like the perfect motherly figure for a story. One that Libby wished she could be able to write but knew that she could never really possess what this woman was entirely.

I would lack the talent to do that, she told herself.

"N-No. I'm f-fine," Libby stuttered loudly.

Heat was rising to her face and her heart was trying to break its' way through her ribs again. She must appear like a complete fool to this woman, she thought. Even though this woman was older and had less time than her, she still was plenty in the thing Libby always wanted. She was radiating in confidence.

The woman looked her in the eyes and at the journal in her arms and a gentle smile filled her whole face in the shining way she envisioned in her mind.

"Are you here for the writer's circle?"

Libby paused for a moment.

"I was. B-But I realized I have s-something I need to do, so if you'll excuse me-"

Before she could run for the doors again, the woman grabbed her wrist.

"Wait, don't go. You must be new to this. I know how tough it can be when you try something new for the first time. My first time coming here, I was an absolute wreck," the woman started.

Libby couldn't help but giggle a bit. The woman joined her with a hearty laugh that the whole world would stop to regale in.

"It may seem impossible. But I was very similar to you. Even though I worked my hardest on my piece, I felt that no one would want to hear it. I felt as though writing may not be the best for me. But these people are so encouraging. They are like a little family to me. And I'm sure they could be to you if you'd like to try."

Libby stopped for a moment. This woman seemed to know everything that was racing through her head. The only way she could know that is if she really reciprocated those same reactions and emotions.

Reluctantly, Libby nodded and the older woman smiled at her.

"Excellent. I know you'll love it here. We'll be like a family here to you. My name is Myrtle, what is yours?"

"I'm Libby."

Myrtle smiled at her in the motherly way Libby was able to grow fond of in a matter of moments.

"It's a pleasure to met you, Libby. I hope you can feel very welcome here as every new writer should."

Libby walked into the room with Myrtle, arm in arm. The entire place was spacious and she felt as though she could breathe again. There were people of all sorts around, with journals like hers or with laptops and other equipment for writing. There were tall people, short people, rotund people, slender people, people of every age, people of every background all living the same moment. Although every person was different in their own way, Libby noticed one way they were all similar. Every person was delighted to be there. Not a single person was timid or shy in their ideas and she could see people sharing passages aloud or exchanging it for the other to read. When they weren't sharing, groups of two or more were huddled together in comradery. People spoke one at a time and no idea ever seemed to be too far fetched or outlandish for the others to hear. Everyone was truly supportive of one another and would always be there to help the other. Automatically, without talking to anyone or showing her piece yet, Libby was rushed with a warm sense that flowed from her head to her toes beneath her ragged canvas shoes. She couldn't quite place it until she walked up to a group of people sharing in a circle. They all took notice of her almost instantly and gave her encouraging grins that said what she wanted and needed to hear. They screamed, "You are wanted here."

That feeling was a sense of belonging.