I can feel
the sting as if it were yesterday, those words that cut deep down into my soul.
“You’re not a writer and you shouldn’t even think of yourself as a writer.” I
was 18, unable to utter a single word. I just stood there as he placed the
paper back into my hands with an F in red pencil written at the top. I’ll never
forget that feeling, the feeling of what little self-esteem I had being sucked
out and thrown in the trash can.
Just one
year earlier as a senior in high school, my Comp II teacher had given me an A
for the class and had submitted one of my papers to a young writer’s
publication. I was so proud and confident of myself and excited about even being
considered a writer.
I had always
loved to write stories, poems and my thoughts down on paper. So having a paper
submitted and my teacher acknowledging that I was good enough gave my confidence
the boost it needed.
How did I go
from excitement to humiliation?
It was a
class that the college I attended required all freshmen to take. The class was
called “Liberal Arts” and was led by a panel of 6-8 professors from different
departments of the college. Each professor then was over a group of students.
They would mentor and grade the papers and exams for their particular group.
Various
topics were discussed in class. There was a lot of reading and many papers that
were written.
The group of
students that I was placed in was led by a professor from the Science
department, a chemistry professor. He was arrogant and behaved as if it was a
complete waste of his time to be involved with the class.
I had worked
so hard on that paper and because it was college I felt that I deserved a B or at the least a C on it.
I walked
away with tears in my eyes. The words playing over and over in my head, “You’re
not a writer.” My mom worked at the college in the business office and so I
walked over to see her. I needed her words of assurance and asked her to read
my paper. She read it and told me to go see one of the English professors to get
their opinion.
The next day
I mustered up the courage and walked into the English department and asked to
see a professor. The professor I spoke to was also a member of the panel from
the class. I explained to her the situation and asked if she would read my
paper, knowing that it wouldn’t get the grade changed but I needed to know if
it was true, that I had no talent for writing.
She read the
paper, looked at me and told me that I was talented. That the grade I received
was in no way equal to the grade I deserved. She couldn’t change the grade but
she did change me to another group.
That was 30
years ago and the pain of that moment is still embedded in my soul. I’ve never
been able to let go of those words that pierced me so deeply. A little voice
still speaks, “You’re not a writer.”
Words fill
my mind and they float around like snow in a shaken snow globe just wanting to
be released. I jot down thoughts and reflections in journals but when I sit
down and place my hands above the keyboard of my computer that little voice
begins to speak, “You’re not a writer” and I pull my hands away.
Fear grips
me and I’m 18 again and the feeling of self-doubt comes over me. I’m not good
enough. I’m not smart enough. I’m not talented enough. I’m not a writer.
A few years
ago I went to God seeking answers to questions that I had regarding my life. It
was an afternoon that I found myself sitting next to a lake and opening up my
mind and soul to hear God speak to me. He did and during that conversation God
said something that I didn’t quite understand. God told me to write. He told me
to write and write and write and that many people would read my words.
I had no
idea what he meant. Write what? Did he want me to write a book, devotions, letters,
articles…? Over the next few weeks I did try to write but every time I would
sit down I would hear those old familiar words, “You’re not a writer” and I
would stop.
The dream of
being a writer never left me. I tucked it deep down inside where only I knew
where it was.
Last year I
attended the Refresh My Heart Conference and was blessed to share a room with
Michelle DeRusha and Jen Sandbulte. Michelle was in the process of writing a
book and I sat in that room listening to her talk, about agents, publishers and
the highs and lows of writing. It was exciting and I hung on every word she
spoke. The dream I had of writing began to resurface.
And this past
summer during lunch with my best friend from high school, who was back for our
class reunion, I shared with her that one of my dreams is that someday I would
love to write a book, a dream that I have only shared with my husband and
couple of other people.
Last week as
I was writing my sermon on the topic of loving your enemies, I asked myself if
I had any enemies. The person, who came to mind, was the professor who gave me
that F, 30 years ago.
Why is it
that I have allowed the words of a professor to speak louder to me then the
words of God?
The words
from the One who created me, who gave me my gifts, my calling, who loves me unconditionally,
are the words I push away.
Why do we
allow others to shatter our dreams when the dreams we have are God’s dreams for
us?
Over 30
years I have hung on to the dream of being a writer. I’ve purchased more pretty
journals and notebooks then I can count. Opening them up, staring at the blank
pages and then closing them shut.
Too afraid
to put pen to paper, that what I would write someone would read. And when I
would finally write I would rip out the pages, tear them in half and throw them
in the trash. Each time hearing the words, “You’re not a writer.”
Those words
have haunted me for 30 years while fear grips. Fear of criticism, rejection and
fear of it being true. And all the while God continues to say, “Write your
words. Tell your story.”
The only way
to conquer the fear is to look it straight in the face, stand before it and
claim victory, by picking up a pen, writing down words and leaving the pages in
the book.
So I take my
red leather journal off the shelf, open the cover, take my pen and begin to
write. Writing the words that have been filling my mind as my pen flows across
the page like a skater on ice, making lines and curves as the letters form words.
I may never
write a book but I will continue to keep the dream alive.
And those words
that stung my soul 30 years ago have begun to fade away and grow quiet as God
smiles and says to me, “You’re a writer.”
Blessings,
JIll
