Getting my insides out

Last week, Paul and I were discussing finishes for the concrete patio we are building in our backyard. I was asking what the options were and we decided we were both leaning towards a "brushed" finish.

Later that night while we were watching our nightly episodes of Better Caul Saul, there was a scene where Mike was literally brushing a concrete walkway he was building.

Paul and I both looked at each other in the exact same moment in disbelief.

Never before had we discussed concrete, or finishes or brushed concrete or anything like that, and here it was displayed visually in front of us on a TV show the same day we had discussed it.

I love those moments. Those moments that seem so odd, so "there is no way this is happening right now", so "dang, this is wild" that you are instantly almost giddy with excitement that you got to experience it.

This is how I felt when I learned about the Christian Writers Workshop.

When we moved to Waco last year we went back and forth on a couple of churches before we finally landed on First Woodway. After about three months of going consistently we started to get a little more involved and I started looking into the different classes that were being offered for the Spring.

It was also around this same time that I was starting to get the writing itch again. I've written off and on all my life, but I knew that I wanted to make it more of a priority in the next few months.

How was it that something so perfectly suited for what I needed (and have never actually seen anywhere else before) just ended up dropping into my lap?

I went to a few meetings during the Spring semester and I loved it. Every week they had a speaker and would give a brief writing assignment. People could read aloud the next week if they wanted to. I never actually completed an assignment because I was too nervous to get up and read it in front of the group. I figured, if I didn't write it, they couldn't talk me into reading it! Ha!

As the weeks went on and people shared their assignments, I was blown away with some of what these people wrote. I even teared up a few times.

That's what words can do to you. That's why I want to write.

Once I discovered the class would take place again this year, I signed up immediately. There was an added bonus that this year the classes would be 1/2 hour longer than last semester which would give us a little more breathing room to have discussion, reading and feedback of our writing.

As I drove to the first meeting I couldn't help but wonder how this class would all shake out. Typically with these groups, most attendees are a little bit on the older side. The older generation tends to have more time for this sort of thing and they have a better grasp on the benefits of having communities such as these. I don't really mind the fact that I'm usually one of the youngest ones in attendance, but I couldn't help hoping that there might be a few younger people in attendance.

I also wondered if I would be brave enough to read something this time. As with any creative process, sharing something that you worked on can feel very vulnerable. Would anyone like it? Would anyone "get it"? Am I any good?

I arrived in the room, got a name-tag and looked for a place to sit. Last semester, I tried to disappear in the background, I sat in the back or alone at a table so I could avoid any possibility of being put on the spot. But there were more people there than before and all of the tables had at least three people at them. I made my way to a table near the front with three older men and made a joke about, "was it ok if I join the boys table?" Humor is my go to defense mechanism. They all laughed and made their own jokes about wondering if they smelled etc...It was cute.

I looked around the room at the variety of people there. While the majority of the crowd was for sure 50+ there were a few younger people there as well. YAY! One in particular caught my eye as she looked like maybe a college student. I was interested in learning more about what her story was.

As we went through introductions, which included sharing our name and why we were there, I was instantly reminded of why I found this group so fascinating the last time I attended.

Writing is one of the most vulnerable things you can do. You take your inside thoughts - all warm and cozy, and snuggled up and making sense - and you try to get them on the outside in a way that you hope makes sense to someone else.

The process is kind of like shining a light into the deepest, darkest part of who you are and then displaying what you find on a giant billboard.

Who will drive by that billboard? A million people? Or maybe just one? Will they even look up to see it? Will they understand it? Will they relate? Will they disagree? Will they love me or hate me as a result?

Clearly conveying to others all of the thoughts and feelings that swirl around inside of you often feels as impossible as it would to climb Mt. Everest. There are so many obstacles in the way! But these obstacles live in your brain. And they are mean.

The beauty of this group though, despite the fact that there are 15 of us, ages 22-75, meeting in a tired room with not-great lighting in a church in the middle of Waco, TX, is that we all get it.

We get how vulnerable the writing process is. We are all going through it together. Our experience levels differ, our life experiences certainly differ but we all know exactly what it feels like to stare at that pad of paper or that blinking cursor while the words swell up inside, needing escape. We are all in on the merciless joke of trying to be a writer.

After we went through introductions, we had an in class writing assignment. We were asked to describe the skit that happened at the beginning of the class. I instantly shut down. Last semester, I easily avoided all of the writing assignments because they were given at the end of class. I started internalizing excuses.

"This isn't how I write. I need time to think, to rewrite, to make a plan. And of course, I need my laptop, I can't write on a piece of paper!"

But we had 15 minutes and I was at a table of three other people who all took pen to paper. I had to write something.

I began jotting down a few thoughts which I eventually scratched out...but as the clock ticked on, I started getting into it. It was hard because there was no structure. I wasn't sure which perspective I should be focused on. Am I just describing? Am I narrating? Do I make it funny? Was this right? What would everyone else's look like?

There is no way I'm reading this out-loud.

After the 15 minutes of writing had passed it was time for those who wanted to share to get up and read out loud what they had just written. It was optional, so of course, I would simply listen and encourage everyone else. There probably wasn’t time for everyone to go anyway so I would just avoid eye contact and hope for the best.

There was no way I was reading this thing I had literally just written out-loud.

The college student I was curious about got up and shared hers first. It was good. Deep. You could tell that she really enjoyed being expressive and detailed. I tucked my paper into my folder...yep that solidified it. I would not be reading.

But a funny thing happened after a few more people got up to read. My stubborn-ness softened. Every single piece written was completely different. Some people had a narrative, some were just observations not in any real coherent form, some were not really finished or flushed out. All different. All unique. Nothing was really "good" or "bad", that wasn't really the point.

I noticed that every single person who got up made a self-deprecating comment, ("ohhh mine is cheesy!" "I didn't even finish it...!" "It's reaaaaally not that good!") but the thing is.....they did it. They shared some of their insides, and it didn't matter if anyone liked it or didn't like it, because we ALL understood how hard it was to go up to the front and share a piece of who they were.

By the time all three of the older gentleman at my table had shared, I actually started to feel excited to get up and share what I had written. I gingerly opened my folder, took out the paper I wrote on and silently read through what I had written.

I would have preferred more time to edit, finesse and do a rewrite so I could add some pizazz, but I was still proud that I even put something together in that short amount of time.

The facilitator caught my eye and gave me a nod, and that was the final push that got me out of my seat and up to the microphone. THE MICROPHONE for goodness sakes.

I read what I wrote out-loud.

My insides were now on the outside. I didn't die of embarrassment. I have no idea what the others in the class thought about what I wrote and honestly, I didn't even care. We were all there, as Brene Brown says, in the ring getting our as**es kicked together, and that's really all that matters.

I couldn't believe I did it. The world may tell you that you need hearts or thumbs or shares or dollar bills to feel something, to feel worthy. But when it comes down to it, spending a Sunday evening in a drafty room with people you barely know doing something that lights you on fire while simultaneously making your knees buckle, now that's the stuff that really makes you feel alive.

I can't wait for the next assignment.

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