My First Random Act

Well, I suppose my first random act, in relation to this blog, is the mere fact that I started this blog. I honestly did not think I was destined to become any form of a blogger. I've been writing for my own amusement since I was nine years old. This was the magically-delicious year that I discovered my greatest passion in life . . . writing, especially poetry. I sat in Mrs. Landis' third grade class as she announced that it was time for the Young Author's Contest, and we were all obliged to participate. We could choose to write non-fiction, fiction, or poetry, as well as illustrate. Poetry . . . hmm, now that was something I had never really thought of trying. The idea intrigued me so greatly that I could hardly wait to get home and start my new project. My first poem was titled "Mothers" -- a tribute to my mom.

With that first poem I felt new emotions surging inside of me, feelings that were exciting, cathartic, and liberating. It was as if a new infusion of life had permeated into my soul. I had found my niche. If one can feel purpose at nine years old, then I suppose I found it. From then on I wanted to be a poet and an artist. I not-so-secretly still have this dream.

I graduated from Indiana Wesleyan University in 2004, with a B.A. degree in writing, and a minor in psychology (a later-developed passion). I haven't really tried pursuing this as a career until very recently. You could say I got just a tad burnt out in college. I didn't write or read anything for fun for an embarrassingly long time after. Now that I have finally put that stage behind me I have realized just how deeply I've missed my quiet jaunts through my mind while I write or read. I realize just how much of myself I had neglected, and how much of my spirit was undernourished. When I read, and most especially when I write I feel a connection to the universe, in a sense. I feel more connected to God. So why I deprived myself of this for so long, I don't know . . . Oh, wait, yes I do know. It's called second-guessing . . . self-hate, doubt, anxiety, fear . . . I got so beaten down (not just physically) during college, that I completely lost my passion. It was beaten out of me by professors, fellow classmates, but most of all, my own lack of self-esteem. I allowed everyone's negative opinion to derail my love for literature. And any positive feedback that I received was simply marked up to, "Well, they must be crazy . . ." Every time I would put pen to paper to create, I was filtering every syllable. "Is this right?" "Is this good enough?" So once I no longer had to write anything, I disconnected myself from that world because it was too painful to be absorbed in it. It only brought back all of those stinging emotions.

I still have to work at this . . . I haven't completely shaken off the burdens of feeling not good enough. But I am happy to say that I at least now will, once I start to doubt, tell myself to shut up. It doesn't always work, buuuuttt, I'm working on that. I feel that love of words again . . . I hear that inner rumbling to create again. It's been so very long. Just call me the Prodigal Poet.