Permission, Courage, and Telling My Story
There have been so many changes in my life in the last year, really in the last six months, especially on the career front. This year alone, I have worked for three different employers, with an end of the year scramble that made me dizzy with a mixture of fear, excitement, and hope. But it was mid-October when things really got interesting.
I was at my desk at job #2 for the year, when I was just
beginning to figure out that this particular job wasn’t going to be the long
haul, career home job I had hoped it would be. I was already job searching,
miserable with a boss that knew nothing about marketing, management, or people
skills, and watching people quit by the dozens around me every day. I had
started only three months earlier, and I had never seen a workplace go downhill
so fast.
My cell phone rang, and an out of town number popped up, and
I answered a little excitedly, hoping it was a response to one of the dozens of
jobs I had applied for. Instead, a voice I vaguely recognized responded to my
hello, almost in mid-sentence before I could put two and two together. It was a
vendor calling me, but she thought I was still behind the desk at my last job,
a failing startup in San Francisco that I had been relieved to escape. I had
spent months there watching several wealthy men fight and break promises (and
do little else) for months. I finally got in a few words edgewise and was able
to explain to her that I was no longer with the startup and couldn’t help her
with the event she was calling about. She paused, and expressed disappointment.
“I so enjoyed working with you Kim,”
she said, “you did a great job.”
I thanked her and prepared to hang up, but she continued.
“I really hope you are doing something you love and have always
dreamed of doing.”
I was almost stunned by her words. First, they were so
genuine, she really meant what she was saying, and secondly, it hit me like a
punch to the stomach. Even if things at my current company weren’t unstable,
even if I was in the perfect marketing job—was this what I dreamed of doing
when I was little? Was this what I dreamed of doing every night when my
thoughts were racing and I couldn’t sleep? No. All I ever wanted to be was a
writer. When I can’t sleep, I am thinking about my book that still isn’t
written, and about my blog that is gathering dust.
I thanked this vendor who will likely never know the events
she helped inspire, and then hung up the phone. I was in tears at my desk. I
felt hopeless. I felt like every job I was taking was a mistake, every decision
I was making was taking me further away from what I wanted more than anything. Most
of all, I had made the decision to move us across the country, far away from
everything, to this place of opportunity—California, and what had it gotten us?
I made my way to the office restroom and spent a good half
hour crying. I reminded myself that very few people I know are doing what they
always dreamed of doing. We all have to earn a living. I told myself that, as a
recruiter recently reminded me, there are more f-cked up workplaces out there
than there are normal ones, and you just don’t know how it truly is until you
are there, until you are inside and working there. I took a lot of deep breaths
and tried to give myself a break about everything.
I got back to my desk, and as I working on some social media
posts for work, I clicked over to Facebook to find a link I needed. I was on my
personal page and scrolled down, and stopped on a posting on an author’s page
that I followed.
One spot left for my One-Day Writing Workshop.
I was frozen. For a minute, work was forgotten, everything
was forgotten. The words stared back at me. This wasn’t just any writer, it was
Joyce Maynard, a writer I had long admired. I had always toyed with the idea of
going to a workshop like this, but didn’t have the confidence, or usually, the
money.
I clicked the link to check out the details, whispering to
myself, please don’t be too expensive,
please don’t be too expensive. The page came up. It was expensive for us,
for this time in our lives. But, it was local. It was 18 miles away. When would
I ever have a chance like this again? I needed this right now. I needed to go
and find out if this dream I had was crazy or if I should keep plugging away.
The only way I would ever know was to go somewhere and get honest feedback from
a writer I trusted and believed in.
I called my husband, and through tears explained that I
needed to do this, I knew we couldn’t really afford it. He was alarmed that I
was so emotional, and agreed immediately that if I needed to do this, to do it,
we would figure out the money somehow.
The date of the workshop was November 3rd, and we
had to submit our essays beforehand. To say I was a nervous wreck didn’t even
begin to cover it. There were six other women attending the workshop. I was so
afraid to put my words out there, to have Joyce and these other women read them
and think I was a horrible writer. I was afraid I would read their words and
compare mine and know immediately that I was not cut out to do this.
To be honest, over the past year, I had been asking myself
why I was putting myself through this torture. No one said I HAD to write. It
was just me doing this to myself. It would be a lot easier to let this dream go.
I had
to work- that was a have to. If I was supposed to be a writer, I would have been
discovered or I would have figured out a way to make a living doing that by
now, right? I had started thinking that maybe it was time to just let go.
What I wanted from this workshop was some kind of answer for
myself. I felt stuck. And if I got a positive answer, I hoped to find a group
of women that I could connect and continue with after that one day. I prepared
myself for the worst. I wasn’t prepared at all for what I got instead.
I turned in my essay at the last possible moment. A few days
later, all the essays were posted online so we could all read each other’s work
before the actual workshop. I did feel humbled by the other women’s work, and I
didn’t know what to think about how my work would be perceived. The workshop
was memoir-focused, but Joyce had also encouraged writers of fiction to attend.
Many of the other women had submitted works of fiction.
One of my biggest struggles with my writing is also what
to write. I have avoided my story (as in writing a memoir) because I just didn’t
know who would want to read it. I am not famous, I don’t feel I have
accomplished that much, although at times, I do feel I have a story to tell. I
have started a novel, but I have struggled. That’s the other part of me feeling
stuck with my writing, and the other answer I wanted out of this workshop.
November 3rd came and as nervous as I was, I made
it to Joyce’s house in one piece. She was incredibly warm and inviting, and as
the other women arrived, my nerves eased a little bit. Regardless of the
answers I got about my writing, I at least began to feel I was among friends.
We began by going around the room and introducing ourselves
and talking about why we were attending the workshop. Joyce let us all do this,
and just listened carefully and said very little and took notes. When we had
all finished, she went carefully around to each one of us and responded.
When I introduced myself, I talked about feeling stuck,
about not knowing if this is what I was supposed to do. I told everyone about
the day at my desk, and being the person who took the last spot at the
workshop, and how I had dreamed of being a writer. I explained that there was a
book my mother had kept for me that chronicled every year of school, with my
school photo pasted in it, and a few memories jotted down below it. And every
year, underneath that photo where the book asked, What does Kim want to be when
she grows up? The answer was always: writer. Every year, from kindergarten on
up. I explained about my hesitation to write a memoir, and my biggest
hesitation of all—my mother. I didn’t want to put her through any more pain,
she had been through enough. I remember Joyce hesitating for a moment when I
said those words. But I had continued and soon it was time for the next person
to talk.
When Joyce got around to responding to me, she got out of
her chair. She hadn’t done this with anyone else, so I was a little taken a
back. But she got in front of me, on her knees, and she told me she was doing
this because she wanted to make sure that I heard her and remembered what she
was about to say.
She told me there were so many things that held us back in
life—money, work, everything else—but this was MY STORY and that I had every
right in the world to tell it and not to let anyone or anything stop me. She
told me I didn’t have to protect anyone, especially someone who did not protect me. She said that if my
mother was in the room, she was sure she would be touched and moved by her
story, but that would be her story.
This was mine.
I can’t repeat her exact words, and I can’t ever express the
passion with which she said them, because I was crying. This release of
permission she gave me, I can’t explain it. I felt I had part of my answer. A
huge part of it.
As I got to know the other women that day through their work
and their own personal journeys, it amazes me how we all travel through such
hard places to get where we are. I felt so fortunate that I had landed in this
particular group of such compassionate, giving women. Everyone was so
supportive and thoughtful.
Joyce worked through each woman’s piece, one by one. With
each piece of work, I was learning more and more, and I was nervously awaiting
my turn. My essay was the last one Joyce reviewed. Her critiques and the input
from the other women at the workshop gave me my other answer. I need to keep
writing. The positive feedback I got
from Joyce and these women was a huge turning point for me. I was so emotional,
and it was almost hard to leave Joyce’s house that night. I didn’t want that
connected, creative feeling to end.
The good news is, it hasn’t. The women from that workshop
have been amazing, and we all stay in touch and have met once and have another
meeting in January. I feel so fortunate to have this group of supportive,
positive, amazing, talented women to share and grow with. We are all each other’s
biggest fans, and can openly share anything and everything about our writing
with each other.
I am forever grateful to Joyce for opening a door for me
that I very nearly let shut. It is still a battle to carve out time for
writing, but I am making myself do it, especially with my writing group’s
encouragement. But I wouldn’t feel the confidence and I wouldn’t have the
direction I do without Joyce kneeling in front of me that day, passionately
making sure I heard her words.
And really, how many times in our lives does someone do that
for us? Really make sure we hear the words that make all the difference—that can
change our lives?
If it happens, be grateful. Listen. Don’t take that moment
for granted. Take the words to heart. Do what you are meant to do.
I plan to do just that.
It might take a long time, it might not work out like I’ve
planned, and I am sure it will be ten times harder than I can even imagine.
But, this is my life.
I am a writer. It is what I was meant to do.
I will tell my story.
