How it began ...

 

Driving through the busy traffic on my way to our first writer’s meeting, my brain was turning over a million thoughts. Mostly asking myself what I was doing—who do I think

I am? I’m a starter, not a finisher. A sprinter, not a long-distance runner. 

But here I was. I had made a commitment to myself and the rest of our little group that I

was going to do it. I had never been to this library before; my nervousness was

compounded by ignorance. 

When in doubt, feign confidence. I decided to follow a man who actually did seem to

know what he was doing, though convincing my legs to cooperate was tricky. 

Moments later I was in a room, a sea of strange faces—some engaged in lively

conversations, others quietly organising themselves.

A charming lady who looked familiar spoke to me by name, and some of my unease

started to slip silently into the carpet. I positioned myself at the table next to another ‘newbie’, anxious now for it all to begin. 

These were real writers. Looking at each in turn, I wondered what their life story was,

what magic and secrets their writings might reveal, but mostly I was absolutely certain

that whatever they were, they were going to be more interesting, more exciting, and

more dramatic than me or anything I could bring to the table.

I felt tiny, but surprisingly I found my voice and put in my two cents worth, which more

or less sums up the value I placed on myself at that point.

Then it happened—I wrote. My brain went to that wonderful place of misty creativity, nostalgia, and storytelling. All cocooned in my soul. The words tumbled onto the page. I scratched out, wrote, rewrote, and wrote again. 

After what seemed like a few moments, the organiser called time. As each person read

their work, I travelled a tiny part of a journey with them—some funny, some poignant, all expressing the writer’s deepest personal thoughts and style. 

My turn came; I was shaking, my voice quivered over the sentences as they spilt into the room. 

And then it was over. I did it. 

Dare I call myself a writer?