I Wanted To Be A Writer

15th Jan 2013.

This day eight years ago, 15th January 2013, a Tuesday, my 59tbirthday, I started this journey, this writing life. How naïve I was.

I had no idea — that less could be more, that I’d have to “kill my darlings”, that there’d be no muse, just hard work and lots of it, and who knew how absolutely necessary, the housework would suddenly become. I’m so damn proud of my shiny bathroom just now.

So, there I was, stood outside the door. I almost turned and walked the other way But…Ok, deep breath, raise your head, grip the handle. What can happen? I gulped down the sick feeling, down into my stomach which itself was fighting to regain some kind of stillness. Through the double glass doors, I could see two ladies already sat at the large table. With heavy, uncooperative, legs I walked into the room. How can it be so hard to pull a chair out and sit on it? I joined the other two and we made small talk as others came into the room.

Slowly the room filled up. The leader of the workshop got us to say a few words about ourselves. It came to my turn. Would I be able to speak? Maybe I could excuse myself and just leave.

“Hello, I’m Marian, mother of nine and grandmother.” My hands clammy, my mouth dry, what on earth was I doing here? Here we were the ten of us, “would be” writers gathered together for six week Creative Writing Course. I suspected that I would be the worst one there.

I’d wanted to write as far back as I could remember, paying a lot of money in the late 70’s for a distance writing course. Learning in isolation though? Not my thing. The books went in the loft, then into the bin when we moved. I never missed them. Though my confidence was knocked, the desire to write remained. I’d always said to myself, if only I had time. I had to dig deep to find a grain of courage to try this new workshop. Would I now, actually be able to? Would everybody be better than me? Would my dream be shattered? Because, then what? I’d always used the excuse that my brain hadn’t got any usable mental space for writing, it was so full of the worries and minutia of bringing up a large family.

Strangely though, I’d been looking forward to this day for longer than I cared to admit. Occasionally, in the past, passion would take hold of me and I’d have to write to a paper or magazine. even had some articles published, mainly in Catholic papers and Parish newsletters. But nothing that would class me as a proper writer. Would I ever deserve that title?

But my main push to start, was the sense I was running out of time. A stroke I had the year before, certainly made me think. Time might be short . All those wasted moments of the past — nothing to be done about them. Dreams for the future? Only wishful thinking … unless… I knew leaving things for later would mean they’d never get done. I mean, I knew I’d never feel like it. So, no time like the present. When I handed the cheque over at the start of that first session, I knew, that it could change everything.

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