“I’ll probably never write again.” I surely said, tipping back a pint of Stella at DC’s Fox and Hound about 6 months ago. After I graduated from my MA in Writing I put my realism hat on. I knew I’d end up in a desk job, try to make enough money to buy a condo and, in all reality never write much more than a grocery list ever again. There was no market, and I had no great ideas. I told myself that I was ok with this – that I went to grad school to develop a skill not to actually become a writer.
In the months since that decision, I’ve post a few times on my blog, written a weekly article for TheNewGay.net, drank beers, and watched Netlix. I’ve also felt disappointed. When some one said I was a good writer I said, “Nah, I don’t even write any more.” When some one said I was a writer at all I said, “Nah, I work for a non-profit.” I spent two years studying writing, I love the act of writing, so why wasn’t I writing?
The answers to that question were pretty simple. I was scared to start new work without support, without feedback, without deadlines. I was scared to fail.
In comes Adventure #1.
For the new year, I knew I needed to become a new me. Act instead of react; do instead of desire. I had to push myself. I searched online and found a Meetup Group of writers who got together twice a month in my neighborhood, and after a couple of days of second guessing my confidence and my ability, I replied yes. Yes, I would meet them at the Center on Halsted on Wednesday, January 6th. Yes, I would write.
Because I knew this was the jumping point for a Year of 52 Adventures, I embraced my nervousness. Like a rollercoaster. I made jokes, shared tips from my writing program and felt my heart go all a flutter as the group talked about parallelism, imagery, structure and repetition. I felt more in my element than I have in months with 4 strangers and a piece of new writing in my hand. I may put on a suit and ride the El to my job at a non-profit everyday, but in the Year of 52 Adventures, I’m a writer.