An Excursion into Creative Writing

This is a continuation of "Where Will The Next Step Take Me?" 

In my attempt to discover whether my writing had any value to anyone other than myself. I had to take some leaps into the darkness of the unknown and try to find the light of revelation. Instinctively I knew that I had to take a chance of being ridiculed in order to progress. This was the only way that I could then start to believe in myself.

I decided to attend a creative writing course that lasted a week but which took me through a lifetime of emotions. The poem "Stepping Stones From Here To There"  tells of the journey I embarked on and the enormous distance I travelled.

I think meeting with other women, (it was a womens-only college that I attended) with a liking for writing, was the best thing that I could have done. It was also the right time to do it. I was writing on the internet most evenings but still did not really believe in the reviews.

Whenever I received a bad review I believed that more easily than I did a good one. I think that I always thought that I would fail dismally. I have since learned that it is not about winning or failing, it is about growing and developing through the opinions and suggestions of others.

When I found out about the creative writing course, I knew that as it was being taught by a published poet I would receive feedback for my writing face to face.

Once and for all I would stand a chance of finding out if I had any talent.

The friends that I made that week I have had a little contact with since the course ended. We all intend to meet up back at the college for two days in March.

The tutor was someone very special, she inspired me and at the same time did not allow me to be satisfied with my work. I had to acknowledge my weaknesses and try to overcome my fears.

I know that I find writing poems easy, I also know that I can hide within a poem. Readers are caught up in the rhythm and the rhymes or the lack of them and I as the writer am spared. My emotions are revealed for the reader to feel but are muted for me as I hide behind the structure of the poem. The length of the poem, the number of the verses or the metre.

During the course I had to write prose and this was so hard, the protective coating of the pill was sucked away, leaving the bitter tablet for me to swallow. I believed then and I still believe, that for me writing poetry is my safety net. I can hide within the verses. The words may tell of hurt, passion, pride, anger, or sadness, but somehow the poem removes me from being hurt again by an experience. This is not an easy concept to explain.

When I write prose, any protection is stripped away, there is nowhere to hide at all. My awful punctuation, poor grammar and my thoughts and feelings are laid on the altar of scrutiny and I am not safe from involvement. It is as if I am there reliving in full technicolour whatever I am writing about.

I do not know if it is a gift, but I can think of any single day in my life and take myself there instantly. I then can see, hear, taste even, what happened on that day. More than that, I can feel exactly what I felt, I can feel the sun warm on my shoulders or the cold freezing my ears, I can cry at a memory and I can laugh or feel happy and at peace with my world.

What I now realise is that I can also write these memories down, commit to paper, for others to read of my life's events.