For many years I’d kept a blog, unafraid to share my more personal moments with the general public. This was even before it was fashionable to have a blog, before digital cameras were a run-of-the-mill thing, and mobile phones most definitely did not fit in your pocket.
It started with mylittlelife.net, which grew into spillingthebeans.com. I wrote three to five times per week, if not more. Writing about these moments in my life started off being an emotional release after the death of my mother, and grew into sharing the ups and downs of becoming new parents.
Without realizing it, I was actually being a writer.
At the time, someone approached me from an online publication called Raising Hell, asking if I would write for them. Surprised, embarrassed, uncomfortable—yet also secretly pleased with myself—I was thankful for the offer, but graciously declined. That was silly of me I realize now; a missed opportunity.
But I didn’t know that I could actually be a writer; be paid for putting thoughts into cohesive sentences, with proper structure, and be interesting and entertaining enough to put a few pennies in my pocket.
When my emotional wounds turned to quasi invisible scars, I let the blog go, there was no more need for it. Had I realized where my path was leading me, I would have kept it up.
Nowadays, I live in the Southern half of England, and the desire to rekindle my writing has grown to a point where I just need to do it. So, in January I joined a creative writing workshop and have been raising my game, writing poetry, learning to get it all off my chest then tighten my ideas.
Believe me, it sounds much smoother and much easier than it actually is.
One of the teacher’s projects, was to encourage us to submit our work to one competition per month. She brought a whole bunch of stamps and envelopes, and a long list of competitions we could enter during the course of 2017.
Since I’d only joined the workshop in January, and I am struggling a bit to take it all in and have time to write something brilliant, I didn’t enter anything in April. Yet all the while I was feeling a bit guilty about it. However… Drum roll please… Last night, I broke the ice, and entered a poem into the Wigtown Poetry Competition.
Granted I’m going up against hundreds if not thousands of poets and authors, and in all likelihood I won’t hear back from them. But the important thing is: I did it. And instead of sleeping in my tall pile of papers, that poem will have been read by several total strangers, and just might have touched someone.