Writers Have Endless Possibilities
Hello there, and welcome to my very first blog post!
I have been flirting with the idea of blogging for quite some time now. I would consider myself a lifelong writer, although I will admit my life has only been 28 short years. From poetry to journaling to journalism, writing has always been a huge lens for how I perceive the world around me. As a fine/physical artist I often incorporate text into my work no matter how cliché some in the art world may see that to be.
Even before adding in the outlet of blogging, I would say I write just about every day. That being the case, you may be as surprised as I was by this desire to add another avenue to the repertoire. After some contemplation I realized there were actually all sorts of reasons blogging in particular filled a niche I had specifically been lacking in - and I believe will carry my writing to the next level in more ways than one.
There are a lot of answers to the “why blog?” or even wider “why make art?” question, and as with anything some are deeply personal but most are pretty universal. What I am also beginning to understand-and one of the biggest why’s-is that even those deeply personal aspects of ourselves we fear nobody will ever relate to, there is a value in sharing. First, you would be surprised how many people resonate with your deepest fear or struggle, and how freeing that can be. Second, even if people cannot relate directly, there is something about sharing that level of vulnerability that connects us to one another as human beings outside of that understanding.
Writing in a journal is a great outlet, and I’ve used it for years and years now. Sometimes my journaling is long and narrative; sometimes I write letters that will never be sent; sometimes I write “really feeling like fucking shit ass today but here I am” and stare down at the blank page while attempting to process why, exactly, I feel like shit ass before eventually falling asleep with my journal open. Even before I was journaling, writing and by extension reading were always passions I could pour myself into.
In first grade, a local college held a “Young Authors Festival” for Elementary and Middle School children; writing a short story would be woven into the curriculum, and then each grade would send one boy and one girl (a different time) to discuss their stories and tour the college. I was absolutely jazzed, even as a little kid; I loved telling stories, and since we were so little we got to draw pictures too.
I wrote my story about spending the summer camping and how much it meant to me. This was one of the first times I experienced the euphoric feeling creating art gives you, in that it lets you live somewhere else for a moment. I was so immersed that I remember asking for extra pages multiple times so I could keep writing and drawing; it was like magic to me, how just describing being there made it feel like I actually was. Like the summer was extending into the fall, and that maybe I wasn’t even in the classroom; I was just in the camper, and my bike was right outside waiting for me to ride it down to the ice cream shop.
When the time came to choose students for the Young Authors Festival, our teacher warned us that we would be choosing students at random so it would be more fair. Maybe we had been told that all along and I don’t remember anymore. Genuinely, it never mattered to me, because having discovered the magic of writing was gift enough. There was a small hope in me though that all the extra time I had spent on my story meant my name was extra lucky and maybe I would get to go hear about being a writer.
As it turns out, my hunch was partially correct. The Day of Choosening came, and my name was called! I remember even then being so excited; I had never been to a college before! And maybe this meant I was really supposed to be a writer!
That day my mom picked me up from school and the teacher asked if she could speak to her for a minute. I assumed she was giving her the details about the Young Authors Festival - it was a multi-day affair with pre-arranged transportation, after all. When my mom came out from speaking to her though, she had a strange grin on her face; an emotion my child mind could barely comprehend that I now know to be some combination of smugness and pride.
“What did you talk to my teacher about?” I asked her.
“I have to tell you in the car,” she told me, giddily marching us both in that direction.
When we got there, she said what she talked to my teacher about was supposed to be a secret but that she wanted to tell me anyway so could I keep it?
Wow, in just a week I’d become both an author and sworn secret keeper! I nodded my head as solemnly as a six year old can.
“That writing competition you won? It wasn’t random. They told you all it was so none of the other kids would get their feelings hurt.” she said, waving her hand around dismissively.
“But they picked you, Sophie. They thought your story was so good that they want to send you.”
Even just recalling that story now, it makes my ears hot. I almost couldn’t believe it. But once she said that, I could recognize that the look on her face was pride. And I did keep that secret until now, because it was never really about beating anyone else for me. I was so excited to not only feel good at something but to like it; to be given a chance to be surrounded by people who had the same passion was reward enough. And I got a t-shirt! I was the most fortunate child on the earth that day.
Winning the competition and going to the Festival itself certainly impacted my trajectory as not just a writer, but also artist, educator, and all around human being. As I got older I leaned towards STEM, mostly out of a feeling of financial obligation. Turns out very few members of my family had gotten to go to a college before. But that feeling of pride I saw in my mom, the pride I had in myself both in the car and at the Festival, sat quietly and patiently until I was ready to unpack it later.
At the Festival, we spoke in small groups with college students, and I thought about how exciting it would be to be one of them. We sat in a lecture hall and had a Q and A with a published author, and I thought about how exciting it would be to be one of them!
They gave us all free shirts we were supposed to wear the day of that said “Writers Have Endless Possibilities” with a globe on the back I still have. At the time it was huge on me; a night shirt, as we called them. Probably five or six years ago now I grew out of it. It choked me up to realize how much time had passed then, and now even more has.
I have this extremely distinct memory from the day of the Festival of being towards the back of a crowd of small children, being shepherded through the college from one event to another. I remember looking out into the sea of light blue, hundreds of little tiny heads floating above little tiny globes, ready to face the endless possibilities ahead of them. I remember thinking to myself then “What if every one of us did write a book?” I loved that not only were there endless topics we could write about, there were endless ways whatever we chose to dedicate ourselves to could change the world as well.
Throughout Elementary School and probably Middle School the idea of what-not if-I would write my first book about bounced around in my head a lot. Eventually that thought got put in a box somewhere near the Festival Rigging Confessional memories to be unpacked later too. Now, who knows. But even if I never write a book, now I’ve written a blog post. A step on a path, you know?
I went to college straight out of high school studying neuroscience and microbiology both emotionally and financially unprepared. After many years of doing my best and still crashing and burning, I took a step away from university to grow and focus inward. I went to therapy. The journaling started. I grew so much in this time and learned about myself. I got married, shifted boundaries, unpacked all sorts of boxes up there.
Years later I went back to college with a completely different mindset and all new goals: I was at community college this time studying art. This is one of the best choices I have ever made for myself. I was honoring so many of the parts of myself I had felt forced to abandon over time to conform to what was expected of me. In Community College, I vowed to let my intuition take me wherever it wanted to go. I had waited so long to really, truly have fun in school despite always loving to learn. When I first started I was unemployed and in a pretty low place, but I had convinced myself that instead of waiting for the time I felt ready-which will never come-I actually needed to go at a time where I felt low. Feeling lost and alone became an invitation to allow myself to be in a place of receiving (again, great choice).
Within a year life looked completely different. It was surreal to believe there was a time where when I described myself, “artist” wasn’t one of the first things I said. I made tons of friends, became integrated into the department and college as a whole, took art classes for the first time, and became a teaching assistant at a community art center.
Year two I felt well established but a little too broke for comfort, so I decided to try and find a job through the college so I could work around my class and teaching schedule. Through a series of happy accidents I found myself face to face with the Advisor for the school newspaper, and a few weeks later I was a journalist.
That’s actually such a comical undertelling of the story there, but it’s long and must be saved for another blog post. . .
When I first took the job I felt confident I could lean into my passion for writing enough to make my literal zero experience interviewing people or working for a newspaper not matter very much. For the most part that was correct; I had no idea what I was doing but loved to yap and already knew lots of people at the school. Being a journalist has been one of the most joyful jobs I have had to date. It helped me unpack a lot and own that writing is more than just a processing tool for me, it’s a passion.
Recently I was diagnosed with Focal Epilepsy which for me unfortunately means having to take a step away from college again. Since the paper is a student journal, this also meant I can’t work until I come back to school. While it is necessary for health reasons, losing both a sense of community in going to school at all as well as getting paid to write which was very healing for me has been a tough blow.
This is a huge part of that personal why in terms of blogging, especially now. I had sort of let myself believe that blogging had fallen out of favor or that spending so much time writing about my own experiences was so selfish it shouldn’t be entertained. I had to get to a place where I realized I didn’t feel that way towards anyone else who took up that kind of space-in fact, I benefitted greatly from their sharing. When I found Bear Blog and saw there is a community already growing who are thinking similar thoughts I decided to dive in.
I guess what finally clicked with me is that even if my path to being in a place of needing community is unique, that innate desire isn’t; in reality vulnerable, compassionate community is in high demand. I see blogging as a way to hopefully provide that space. By being honest about my own personal struggles I hope to not only amplify my own healing, but also encourage others to take up space in their own ways.
Another huge motivating factor to commit to blogging is the way being an educator also plays into my identity. These are tough times we are all living through; having that thought sometimes makes me afraid to take up any space. But I would never tell that to my students. Loving them helps me interface with the version of myself that knew I would write a book, just not what it would be about.
Instead, I want to be an example of what I believe will truly heal us all: slowing down, listening, being honest about the good and the bad, releasing.
Let's all write a book. Let's all start a blog. Imagine how much the world would change.
Peace and love, Sophia Marie