Begin Again

It's scarier than dipping a toe into a vast ocean. Never mind the rings I might possibly make, or whom they might touch; it just feels like with one false step, drowning could be in my future. And that wouldn't be a good thing.

I suppose I should preface all of this by saying that I have never been comfortable with titles. Miss, Ma'am, Writer, Artist. They are all so heavy and loaded with potential misunderstanding, inflated sense of self-worth, or a wealth of responsibility that I've never felt prepared to carry. What is it to be a Writer? A Writer is one who writes, correct? For some reason my mind makes a grandiose leap in assuming that anyone to carry that mantle has to have been on the New York Times Bestseller List a dozen times or more. Or perhaps a Writer is someone who has penned multiple scripts that have gone on to win Oscars and BAFTAs and EMMYs and so forth. A Writer is surely someone who has lived in Greenwich Village and has since collected a hundred accolades to his or her name. Perhaps a "real" Writer is a starving artist who lives under a leaky rooftop in Paris, sacrificing comfort and "normalcy" in the name of one's craft. It all feels so out of my reach if not a bit presumptuous to think of myself in these terms, as none of them are remotely accurate or applicable. I believe that I am about as anonymous and invisible as they come.

If a Writer is one who writes, then I suppose by default that I must be one.

Does being a Writer mean picking up a pen or pencil or crayon from the moment one is able to hold one, and penning one's first story at the age of five? Is a Writer one who scribbles fiction until a permanent callus forms on her writing hand middle finger before the age of ten? Is a Writer is one who sits strategically in the back of her seventh grade Language Arts class and carefully takes notes not on the lesson at hand but rather on the other students' dialogues that are floating around the back of the classroom and compiles them into a social commentary on mid-1980's teen culture? Or is a Writer one who flourishes during high school writing classes, shares bits of a running piece of fiction with friends in between the bell ringing, and later goes on to earn a B.A. in Creative Writing during four blurry, near-incoherent college years? If these meet the criteria for definition (no matter how loosely), then yes, I suppose I am a Writer. But the title alone still fills me with much anxiety and trepidation. So today, I'm forcing myself to change the uppercase "W" into a lowercase, more unassuming "w." 
This is the first time in years that I have attempted a blog in earnest. I've had several false starts, and only wound up wallowing in silent disappointment. There was a time when I would write literally every day, by HAND, in JOURNALS, which is what I've heard that writers DO. Either they force themselves to perform this exercise from time to time, or else they are compelled to do it if and when the urge is there. They have no choice. The Muse calls, or something else moves them, propels them, commands them, and... it's what they do. I used to fall into that category.

Even if I only scrawled two lines, I had still accomplished something. A journal of scraps could always be patchworked together one day, if enough of the patches fit together, into a quilt of prose or poetry. The cast-off crumbs could all be incorporated into one great feast, perhaps. But if one has no belief in the possibility, one only ends up with shelves jam-packed full of ramblings, broken up by the occasional poem or snippet of possible lyric. And the ever-present sad mantra of "What am I doing with my life?"

I've held on to a crippling self-doubt for too many decades to count. The longing to break free from the pack and be my own person has done battle with the fear of what others might think. But putting a bitter middle finger to the rest of the world is too extreme of a solution, and one that is rife with potential problems. Sure, it works for some, but it's not really been my desire or style to do so, though I'm sure the seventeen year-old Me would beg to differ. I would love to go back to the seventeen year-old Me and tell her, "Seriously, none of this shit matters. Put your head down, do your homework, dream in between, and get through it. None of these people matter, none of these classes matter, and no one will remember you in five years." I'd also love to go back to the ten year-old Me and tell her, "Those mean little bitches seriously have no clue who or what you are. Listen to those who love you. Listen to those who are truly your friends-- and girl, you've got a LOT of them, lots more real friends than most kids have, because you have something that shines inside and attracts them-- and listen to those teachers who each year act as though you've hung the moon, who believe that you're the star student in their classroom, and who proclaim on every report card and during ever parent-teacher conference that you're as bright as the sun, even though you don't understand why they continually heap praise like rain in a field of flowers. Most importantly, pay attention to the things that call to you, the things that fill you with a passion and a drive. Follow those things, and let them flood your veins. Music, art, poetry, animation, cartooning, whatever form they take, however goofy you might think the pursuits, they are yours to command and create."

Then again, the ten year-old Me, as intelligent and wise beyond her years as she was, would likely stare back at me like I were completely mad. So who knows how well that would work out. 

But the real reason I am attempting this blog for the umpteenth time comes down to three words: Stephanie Lynn Nicks.

"Rhiannon: Stevie Twirling"
Photo © 2014 by Heather L. Gibson. All rights reserved.

 Yes, by all means, bring on the naysayers' jaded jibes at gypsy new age crystal vision bullshit. Do I wrap myself in velvet? Do I twirl? Am I a siren from whose pen spouts the prose and lyrics of the same mystical caliber as this world-renowned artist who (for more than four decades now) has been caricatured to death as nothing more than a platform boots-wearing, lace shawl-draped Welsh Witch? Hardly.

But when Stevie Nicks spoke to a crowd of potentially 20,000 folks at Tampa's Amalie Arena on December 20, 2014, the final night of Fleetwood Mac's ON WITH THE SHOW tour until resuming its grueling pace in the new year, her words hit my heart like a velvet punch from a fairy godmother. To paraphrase (since I was not quite clairvoyant enough to have recorded that portion of the concert on video), she told us to never give up on our dreams; that if we feel compelled to do something, to dance, to sing, to paint, to create, to be who we are meant to be, then we have an obligation to do it and damn anyone who might tell us to do otherwise. Life is too short. I've heard those words for most of my forty-four and three-quarters years spent on this planet, and they've always been just words, no matter who speaks or writes them. But for some reason that evening, the elements were alchemized, the planets were aligned, the words carried more weight than they ever have before, and I knew in that moment, as the chills raced over every square inch of my body, I needed to listen-- if not now, then never.

Hitting "Publish" in this blogging software will probably take some doing, as I am never, ever satisfied with anything I have ever done in my entire life. Yes, Life is a work in progress, but at some point you need to put the pen down, close the journal, hit "save," click "send," or whatever. The urge to come back and edit, re-edit, and re-edit again, will be both excruciating and difficult to ignore, but I will do everything in my power to let go and try not to look back. At least, without too much anguish.

This blog is far from Shakespeare; it is a world away from a Golden Globe or a Red Carpet party. But it's a start. Again.