I am participating in the Writing Contest: You Are Enough, hosted by Positive Writer.
Positive and encouraging are not usually two words associated with me, but by writing this I hope to reach someone who feels or has felt the way I have as an emerging writer over several decades.
As a 100% Czechoslovakian girl, born in the United States, I was different than my peers. My parents were born in suburbs in Czech Chicagoland of Chicago in the 1930s, so they retained their deeply embedded heritage, but went to public schools to learn English.
I speak English only, but my sentence structure is usually backwards, due to the strong Czech influence. I’m predominantly left-handed but function as ambidextrous, which may explain some of my usual state of confusion.
As a child, I felt like I was different in an odd way. I was ashamed of who I was. Home wasn’t a safe, nurturing place, so I hid in books and typewriting as I grew older. The first typewriter I used was Mom’s manual Remington Remette (circa 1939). I developed strong finger muscles punching each key hard enough to imprint the ink ribbon. I didn’t write anything original. I copied recipes out of my mother’s numerous cookbooks or retyped her recipe cards. For hours on end. I loved typing, but creative writing wasn’t even a remote thought.
Czech custom believes that children are to be seen and not heard. I was naturally introverted, but I wasn’t just quiet… I was afraid to talk. What I said was criticized, ridiculed, or ignored. I learned to be silent in order to survive. “I don’t know,” was my standard reply to questions. I couldn’t talk and I couldn’t write. Required writing in school was excruciating and papers were shielded with my upper body so that I wouldn’t be exposed.
I completed reports in the privacy of my bedroom and then hid them. Only teachers read my papers. No one else could know who I was. I wanted to copy (plagiarize) information from books and encyclopedias because my mind was paralyzed and void of words. I’ve always loved words—someone else’s words.
Even so, I write better than I speak. Eventually, I discovered that thoughtfully crafted thank-you notes and cards elicited positive feedback. Those were my miniscule entrance into the world of writing.
Somehow, I passed college English writing assignments, but they were mediocre and lacked organized thoughts. I couldn’t bring myself to let anyone proof my text—I was even too afraid and embarrassed to silently read my own writing.
After I married, I journaled, sporadically. My lifelong pent-up emotions needed an outlet and talking wasn’t an option. Angry words spewed onto paper.
After my children left home for college, I was compelled to pen my life story since I’d been diagnosed with chronic depression and had overcome it through prolonged therapy and journaling. I faithfully wrote snippets of lessons learned. By now I had a computer and word-processing capability, but I didn’t allow anyone to read a word from them. After I had more than one hundred pages, I registered for a book writing workshop. I agreed to participate in a collaborative book and entered my best effort for one chapter. It was accepted and the publisher/editor returned my paper with uplifting comments. Determined to press on, I joined a local writing group with like-minded people and a professional coach.
At my first meeting I nervously read aloud the chapter from the published book. Immediately, I was devastated by criticism. Bumps everywhere, redundancies, and the big no-no of using the word “very” were eagerly brought to my attention. My hope of becoming a writer evaporated. At the same time, I was invited to write devotionals for a women’s online blog. I reluctantly agreed and struggled to push through, but self-doubt paralyzed me. I’d bring them to the writing group for more mark-ups and comments. I endured for a couple of years, thinking I would develop a thick skin and learn to receive criticism well, but I didn’t. I gave up in defeat and admitted to them that I wasn’t mentally stable enough to continue.
I stopped writing altogether for months. When I had to submit devotionals, I procrastinated and agonized over every word. Pure torture. I felt so vulnerable knowing the world could access and read my soul. Every so often, someone would email me a word of encouragement, but shame eventually won out, and I quit writing again. Who did I think I was believing I could be a writer? I choked at the thought of uttering the words, “I am a writer.”
The student in me nudged me to attend writers’ conferences to glean tips and my hopes would temporarily re-ignite. I entered my personal testimony in a contest. My paper was accepted for publication as a chapter. I was somewhat excited, but I was also learning that writing really wasn’t about me, it was about helping others who experienced similar writing anxieties.
My passion is to make a genuine difference in people’s lives, but I’m still figuring out how to communicate the message of my heart through written words—even when fear threatens to take my mind hostage.
Keep writing. Confidence will grow. You have a voice and a story that someone needs to hear.
Karen Sims
hopenedheart 
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