A couple of months ago, I wrote a poem. In fact, I can’t even say I wrote this poem. It sort of demanded to be written and I moved my pen as fast as I could on scratch paper to get it down. It was the first poem I’d written in over a year. With one exception, it was the first poem I’d written about me, my real feelings, and my search for myself in over twelve years. When I was finished getting it down, I read it and I liked it. The poem was a reflection on my past, my biggest mistakes, and the realization that that they weren’t mistakes at all, but learning experiences. It was also a good hard look at who I had become in an attempt to hide from those mistakes instead of learning from them. The end of the poem expressed my desire to forgive and embrace the girl I had been and to allow her back into my life, make room for her to walk with me.
A few days after writing the poem I stumbled across a poetry contest and felt the urge to enter it. But the bells and whistles went off. What will people think of me? So I shared the poem with two people I trust, who have been very good at nourishing the writer in me. They both said the same thing. If you want to be a writer, you have to be willing to put yourself out there. So I put aside my fears, paid the fifteen bucks, and entered the poem in the contest. I’ll find out how it did at the end of Spring. In the meantime I’ve decided to put myself out there. Afterall, I am a writer.