I have learned that it is not and will never be easy to kill my inner writer. I have learned that the smoke inside me is a sign that she is still alive — that we are still existing. That the Ode to the Writer I have written for myself was merely a collection of my excuses and my cowardly attempt to look brave — to feel brave.
In the two days writing workshop I have attended, I have learned about the plot line and the different ways to end a story. I have learned that grammar is important and that inspiration is everywhere, even in moments of others’ grief.
But these are things we’ve known for quite some time. As aspiring writers, we all know that words are our weapons and that the tale is not as important as how it is told. We all know these things, and yet this workshop has been the most meaningful one I have attended.
Looking back, I guess the workshop was significant and timely because those two days opened my eyes to my cowardice — a byproduct from the fact that I know I am lacking and inefficient as a writer. But instead of stopping at the negative labels, the workshop has offered a hand to rescue my inner writer. It has extended help with truths that are resounding and reassuring.
“The world is a dark and unforgiving place. Be brave. Put yourself out there; get rejections and wear them proudly. Write. Read. Tell your story. Start somewhere.”