She’s with us
I attended my first writing workshop this weekend with 25 other writers. I had been looking forward to it for a month, but once I arrived, self-doubt crept in like it often does. Sitting at a round table with five other participants, someone naturally asked me, "What do you write?" I responded, "Oh. Some poetry, some narrative non-fiction, and I have written a fiction novel." Of course, the next question followed, "What is it about?" I stammered, "Ah, well. Yes, this is something I am going to work on this weekend—pitching my book. Might as well try now." I proceeded to give a rough description as the attention of everyone at the table was on me. I did OK, but it certainly wasn’t polished. Some of the other women at the table went on to describe their accolades, and I felt myself begin to shrink. I felt less and less significant. What was I even doing here? I’m not a real writer. I don’t belong here.
As if Joni, the instructor, overheard my most inner thoughts, she spoke to the attendees about not belittling yourself and your achievements, taking pride in your work in whatever form it takes, and then introduced our next exercise, which was going to be a guided meditation with Deb. Wait- what? Deb, my editor, Deb? The one that I met over Zoom but had yet to see in person? I was thrilled and immediately approached her to introduce myself. We embraced. I pulled a proof copy of SPIRAL BOUND from my bag and showed it to her, telling her that I was about to publish it on Amazon. I said, "Yeah, it’s kinda a big deal." She responded, "It IS a big deal." "Yes, it is a big deal," I said, nodding.
Over the three days, I practiced (but did not perfect) my elevator pitch, networked with others about their experiences, and received helpful, constructive, and supportive feedback. I felt empowered. I felt like a writer.
I wrote this poem Saturday afternoon, using the unprompted surroundings to inspire me.
She’s with us
She sits among us
around the fireplace
we write in our notebooks and journals,
tap on our laptops
she touches pen to paper
in her daily planner
looking up from time to time
warmly saying “hello”
with kind eyes and soft words.
She looks like
a mother, a wife, a sister,
a grandmother, an old friend,
a teacher, a bridge partner.
Searching the page
for a clue
and access to memories
recent and mundane
or old and precious.
To a passersby,
she looks like us
a fellow writer,
a collective spirit,
I believe she is.
