I am taking a fiction writing course at the university. Its one of those things that I don’t really know why I’m doing it. I sit next to these MFA’s and journalists and I feel dreadfully inept. I laughed at myself for other reasons too. 1) I am not educated enough, not brilliant enough to be a decent fiction writer 2) I love GOOD fiction way too much to ever write cheesy Christian, or weird Christian historical fiction (seriously what is the DEAL?).  3) Seriously…does everyone in my generation think they should get to write a book? We really need to get over ourselves.

So perhaps a waste of time and money…save the fact that I LOVE IT. So…I am not going to learn to sew or play tennis or run marathons instead I am going to have a hobby. Welcome to it! My teacher has told me I am not allowed to write ‘bloggishly’ whilst doing my writing practice (30-60 minutes a day) so you poor souls are therefore subject to my class homework. This week we settled in on settings (well…and scene, exposition and summary). Here is a scene from a short story I am working on.

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“I did it again” was all the text message had read. It was enough, for now here I was, flying down the highway much too fast for a road this wet, for puddles this deep. I imagined the puddles ahead of me, the ones I would find at Leas house. Those puddles would be red, would be thick and would be deep. I press the pedal closer to the floor and I know I am tempting fate. “Police officer, are you there? Come this way! Save me from myself. Save me from my savior complex. From her. Get in between us.” There must be someone better equipped to deal with this than I. Lea, she knows all about the ‘establishment’; hospitals and foster care. She knows about all of it and trusts none of it, no one. No one that is, save me.

I arrive at one am and feel my way along the stucco of the town house that she calls home. Lea leases a bedroom from a school teacher with whom she shares a kitchen . I push open the sliding glass door around the back side of the house and  I note it is ajar; she knew I would come. The room smells faintly of cat litter and pain. There are no photos in this room, no books. There is no left behind scent of food, no throw blankets on the black sofa. If you had told me that I was looking at a vacant suite I would have believed you.

“Lea, Lea, are you here”

“Yes. I’m here.” The voice, weaker than usual, fragile like glass, trails back. Fear creeps up my throat. I pause at the threshold, prepare for what my eyes might find.

(weak I know…its 11:45 ok? Lay off. I’m tired.)

I remember still, eight years old, I sipped my canned peach juice off a spoon pretending it was medicine. My neck wrapped tight with wool sock and smothered in vicks vaborub. Every so often mother would stoop with the dreaded Buckley’s mixture and I would gasp it down. To occupy me, my mom slipped me an orange duo-tang, some pencil crayons, a pen. She brought the ‘little brown table’ to my makeshift sick-bed in the living room. I spent the day creating the world of ‘Samantha and Smudge’. I lost myself in words and illustrations and I still remember holding the book at day’s end, proud. I smoothed the cover and held onto it tight. I could hardly wait to show my dad.

I remember in high school, when writing teacher printed off all my writings to take home for herself. I remember the thrill of it, when she returned it with marks and encouragements and author recommendations. She made comments like ‘your writing reminds me of…’. I held onto those words, I tucked them away deep in soul dreams.

I remember when mentor, years later, read a letter I wrote her out loud and she said it, “You should be a writer”. I gasped then I put it quietly aside. I went to nursing school.

Boxes and boxes of words sit happily in my room. Filling shelf space after they have done their job, dancing life into my heart, pulling meaning from ordinary and everyday.

Those soul dreams though? They never went away. In fact they get stronger each year, will not be ignored. There seems to be no other choice for me but to hone this craft. I’m making it habit to pick up pen. I’m setting deadlines on myself and I’m seeing what happens. I’m chasing any opportunity I come across. I’m not letting doubt or fear win.

 I’ve no expectation. Twenty minutes on the internet and I know I’ve nothing to say that hasn’t been said, that there are thousands more gifted than I. It isn’t the point. Even if all I ever have is a stack of orange duo-tangs, I know what it does in my heart and that is more than enough.

One of the opportunities I am chasing? A writers retreat.  I would LOVE to win my way to explore this passion. Thanks for your consideration Higher Calling Blog!