#SOL18 Day 5

Fair warning: Every time I’ve told the story I’m about to write, I’ve cried. The one time I wrote about this moment in an email, I also cried.

(Chances are good I’m already choking up.)

But I’m going to power through and share this slice of life. Writing has always been a thinking tool for me, and my emotional response to this moment is a clear indication that it matters.

Sitting in the closing luncheon of the CCIRA Conference last month, I should have been feeling relief. After two full years of planning and a completely insane lack of work/life balance, the conference had been a success. I didn’t even have to emcee this event; tradition dictated that the current conference chair passed the facilitation of the final luncheon on to the next year’s chair.

I could sit back and let the affirming feedback (and exhaustion) wash over me (and that was my plan).

Middle grade author Linda Urban began her keynote entitled “Your Secret Writing Heart.” She was engaging. She was insightful.

And she was (unknowingly) talking directly to me.

As Linda described the times in her life she’s been connected to her writer-self versus the times she has set her writing aside, it was as if a gate burst open, and this whole other side of myself that I had packed away suddenly escaped--all at once, like this avalanche of crushing awareness.

I was going to have time to WRITE again.
I was going to have time to WRITE again.
I was going to have time to WRITE again.

(It was all I could do to not burst into tears right there at the table.)

Feelings surfaced that had been pushed down so deep and far into the corners of my self that I hadn’t even noticed they were missing. It was the opposite of a physical pain, like an ache I had been ignoring disappeared, and I noticed its absence rather than its presence.

I thought back to the last time I had worked on my novel--December of the year before last, so 14 months. That day in December was also the last time I met with my critique partner before departing into a vortex of conference prep. . .

In that moment, I was both overjoyed at the idea of digging back into my book and completely broken by the realization that I had been willfully denying such a core part of my identity for over a year.

How had I not noticed?

I knew when I said yes to chairing the 2018 CCIRA Conference two years ago, it would mean I was saying no to other things. I was making a decision that would make other choices impossible (or at least much more difficult). Because the professional and personal pros far outweighed the potential cons, it was a relatively easy call (or so I told myself).

However. . .

Rationalizing the deferment of a dream (like publishing a book) is different from turning off a part of yourself that you need to be yourself. Based on my (dramatic) reaction, it became clear that writing is something I need, not just something I do. 

A writer is something I am.

The words, unfortunately, did not come as quickly as the feelings.

After the keynote, when Linda came over and asked, “Was that okay?” I was unable to speak. I had lost the ability to produce language. I think I nodded, acutely aware that she probably thought I was an idiot, but also unsure of what might come out if I tried to answer her.

(Who am I kidding--it would have been tears. Tears would have come out.)

At that point, Linda was approached by multiple attendees, all wanting to thank her and speak with her. I took advantage of those several minutes to try to wrap my head around what had just happened. I needed to explain it to her--and not just to repair the idiot misconception (although that was definitely part of it).

I had this feeling she would understand, and in that moment, I needed to connect with someone who had experienced the way that not writing (for a writer) can change you.

And, of course, she did understand.