Write like there's no wrong

My orange duo tang from high school full of my teenaged poetry.

I’m a keeper of many things: secrets, my word, my vow to live life on my terms. But I’m also a keeper of material things, much to the chagrin of some of my minimalist friends. I’m not a hoarder but I do profess to hanging on to things a bit longer than I should. I gently let most things go but it’s with reluctance. Once something is gone, you usually cannot get it back. 

It was while looking in a tote (a single tote, I might add) of high school and college assignments that I stumbled across the orange duotang. Even without looking at the label, I immediately knew what was inside: poetry, the subject love. I remember the assignment.. We could choose any topic we liked — and I, a high school girl smitten with her English teacher — chose love. Good God. I knew nothing about romantic love which was specifically what I was assembling pieces for. I bounced around high school not even really dating, just a big group of friends who hung out together. I didn’t have actual feelings that bordered on love until college and then they were rebuffed by a boy who deemed I wasn’t worth pursuing. Heartbroken? No, but heart hurt, yes. Still I knew nothing about the dance, the giddiness, the butterflies. I knew nothing about the effort, the beauty and the routine, nothing about the heartbreak. Yet. I would learn about all of this but the girl who wrote the poems in the orange duotang knew nothing about love yet.

Still, I tried. I look back on the sappy, sugary prose and I know there was a time I was embarrassed about what I wrote. I’m sure I cringed both inwardly and outwardly at my naive declarations. I no longer do. To be clear, they are not masterpieces. I did not unearth verses that future English students will pore over in anticipation. But I tried. I wrote about a subject and had a secret muse (I’m pretty sure my English teacher, he of sweater vests, a neatly trimmed beard, kind brown eyes and gentle smile had no idea I thought he was handsome). And I got a great mark. Which, to me, I took as I sign I had the ability to craft words and entice people to read them.

The confirmation that my words resonate with some people then and now is comforting. Do I need the validation? Yes and no. Yes, because why else write a blog? But no because writing for myself and finding what I need from what I write should be enough. Still, though, writing about my life flows and I do it with ease. What if I was to challenge myself to write differently? Do I still have the ability to write about things I don’t know about — and things that I do? Do I still have the ability to push myself? To try?

It’s a great question. I wrote a short story a little while ago to mixed reviews. Never submitted it anywhere formally but showed it to a few friends. I’m proud of my first attempt but not sure what, if anything, I’ll do with it. It might be meant to languish on my iPad forever. 

Something that has piqued my interest recently has been writing prompts posted on X (although I’ll forever call it Twitter) by an English professor connection. Poetry prompts, three to four words daily, designed to inspire prose. I’ve never participated before and so, with a deep breath, I decided to write. Write without caring what others think. Write without, if possible, self-criticism. Write what flows and let the language go where it wants. Write without editing for an entire day. Just write. And be like the high school girl with the crush on her teacher, be confident enough to show someone.

And, with that in mind, I post what I write. I’m positive not everyone likes what I’ve written. Hell, I’m sure most people don’t even read what I write. Still, it feels good to find and flex this muscle. For the woman who rarely says no to trying something new, even once, it feels good to challenge myself in this manner. 

I’m not embarrassed by what I write. I love that I can write — that I do write. And although my poetry may not set the world on fire, maybe it’s time I buy another duotang and keep what I’m writing as a reminder to myself to be open to try.