My Writing Story
As an introduction to the composition class I teach, I always tell my writing story. I also ask the students to tell me their writing stories on paper. I suggest they think about what their experiences with reading have been, and how that enters into their writing experience. I want to know about memorable writing experiences they've had, honors they've received, pieces they enjoyed writing or felt good about afterward.
I love to read their stories. But I find it very exhausting, depressing even, to tell mine. I'm glad "the story" is behind me for this year. I do it because I think the students will remember things in the context of a story that would be all too forgettable if issued in the form of do's and don'ts. I tell this story without names, for the most part, except for those I am giving tribute to.
No, I won't tell the story here--too long and too personal--just poke around the edges of it a bit.
On the one hand, I realize how incredibly blessed I have been to have had good teachers and affirming family members throughout. Not one of these people ever told me women couldn't do this or that. They welcomed vigorous debate and sharply focused exchanges. They challenged me to assert only what I could defend rationally and courteously. No one ever told me my writing would be better if it was less passionate.
I had my first Calvary Messenger article published when I was 16. I won writing prizes in writing contests in college and had pieces published in the Great Plains Review--the annual publication produced by a consortium of Christian colleges in Kansas. I won a prize in a national poetry contest right after college and was published in an anthology. I've written regular columns for a Mennonite women's magazine, and been well paid for it. A market gardening magazine published a short article and paid me well too. Those were the good parts of the story--certainly not extraordinary, but satisfying nonetheless.
But the dark times were darker than the good times were bright. I was vilified in terms and to an extent I didn't know Christian people could unleash on each other--because I wrote what seemed threatening to familiar ways of thinking on education. My loyalty was questioned. Motives were assigned to me that I did not feel guilty of. I was talked about without being talked to--in the curious position of being the subject of "meetings"--not knowing about the meetings till afterward--after others had decided what to do with me. People wrote about me and circulated it to others--three pages in one case, single spaced, in 8-pt. type--all of it critical--by someone who did not know me--based entirely on what I had written. An article that had already been accepted for publication, with one installment printed, literally had the final two installments censored--banned. I could. not. believe. this was happening.
It was a long time before I emerged from the disillusionment and disappointment of that experience.
I don't think about it very often any more, but when I do, I wonder if this is how people feel when, years later, they remember a death. For a time, the raw emotion comes back, and I feel very vulnerable. Then, finally, the good memories I have from before and after the dark time can take center stage again and I go on with life.
Is there any point in re-visiting painful experiences like this? Or telling others about them? Does it trigger catharsis or sepsis?
This is where people usually tell what lessons they've learned from their experience. I could do that, and, to my students, I usually do. But would I choose that route to get to this place? Were the lessons worth it? I don't know.
What I do know is this: Heaven is worth it. Serving Christ is worth it. Sacrifices are worth it, when they are offered to God as an act of devotion.
Living with integrity is worth it, and that involves doing the right thing, no matter what. Being honest is worth it. What do we gain by it? Certainty that we have a place in the family of God, meaningful and rewarding work to do, true friends to walk with us. Sometimes, affirmations along the way. Heaven at the end of the way. For that, even that route to get to this place would be worth it.
I love to read their stories. But I find it very exhausting, depressing even, to tell mine. I'm glad "the story" is behind me for this year. I do it because I think the students will remember things in the context of a story that would be all too forgettable if issued in the form of do's and don'ts. I tell this story without names, for the most part, except for those I am giving tribute to.
No, I won't tell the story here--too long and too personal--just poke around the edges of it a bit.
On the one hand, I realize how incredibly blessed I have been to have had good teachers and affirming family members throughout. Not one of these people ever told me women couldn't do this or that. They welcomed vigorous debate and sharply focused exchanges. They challenged me to assert only what I could defend rationally and courteously. No one ever told me my writing would be better if it was less passionate.
I had my first Calvary Messenger article published when I was 16. I won writing prizes in writing contests in college and had pieces published in the Great Plains Review--the annual publication produced by a consortium of Christian colleges in Kansas. I won a prize in a national poetry contest right after college and was published in an anthology. I've written regular columns for a Mennonite women's magazine, and been well paid for it. A market gardening magazine published a short article and paid me well too. Those were the good parts of the story--certainly not extraordinary, but satisfying nonetheless.
But the dark times were darker than the good times were bright. I was vilified in terms and to an extent I didn't know Christian people could unleash on each other--because I wrote what seemed threatening to familiar ways of thinking on education. My loyalty was questioned. Motives were assigned to me that I did not feel guilty of. I was talked about without being talked to--in the curious position of being the subject of "meetings"--not knowing about the meetings till afterward--after others had decided what to do with me. People wrote about me and circulated it to others--three pages in one case, single spaced, in 8-pt. type--all of it critical--by someone who did not know me--based entirely on what I had written. An article that had already been accepted for publication, with one installment printed, literally had the final two installments censored--banned. I could. not. believe. this was happening.
It was a long time before I emerged from the disillusionment and disappointment of that experience.
I don't think about it very often any more, but when I do, I wonder if this is how people feel when, years later, they remember a death. For a time, the raw emotion comes back, and I feel very vulnerable. Then, finally, the good memories I have from before and after the dark time can take center stage again and I go on with life.
Is there any point in re-visiting painful experiences like this? Or telling others about them? Does it trigger catharsis or sepsis?
This is where people usually tell what lessons they've learned from their experience. I could do that, and, to my students, I usually do. But would I choose that route to get to this place? Were the lessons worth it? I don't know.
What I do know is this: Heaven is worth it. Serving Christ is worth it. Sacrifices are worth it, when they are offered to God as an act of devotion.
Living with integrity is worth it, and that involves doing the right thing, no matter what. Being honest is worth it. What do we gain by it? Certainty that we have a place in the family of God, meaningful and rewarding work to do, true friends to walk with us. Sometimes, affirmations along the way. Heaven at the end of the way. For that, even that route to get to this place would be worth it.
posted by Mrs. I at
8:08 PM
1 Comments:
I for one am glad you take the risk of blogging despite your horrible experiences with having your writing out there where people can read and criticize. Thanks for sharing your writing story and being honest but not vindictive.
By
Dorcas, at 9/05/2009
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