in sixth grade, I wrote a poem titled "Paradox." It's still fascinating to me as it's from my pre-menstrual, on the brink of puberty, 11-year old mind. I was on the precipice of intense hormonal shifts, desperately holding onto the last shreds of innocence. These are thoughts I had before I knew that they should probably just stay thoughts.
For the most part I kept my poems and writing to myself, hidden in a journal my mother bought me. I was intensely private at a young age, but for some reason I decided to submit this one to the middle school literary and art publication...for all to see. And I remember being so proud when it was accepted and so disappointed that not a single word of praise ever came my way otherwise. Not a peep.
First off, I was completely unaware that the majority of sixth graders didn't have this shit on their minds. My one girlfriend was more interested in perfecting her french kissing technique and the other was suddenly becoming the sixth-grade fashion diva. Most girls were at the stage of envying beauty for the first time. And while I was enjoying that stab of inferiority with the best of them, I was more about deep thoughts and diving into five books over the weekend...and writing. My one true life-long love. What I'm trying to say is that not a single friend gave a shit about my poem.
Next, I had adults in my life. I was surrounded by teachers who taught me. Coaches who coached me. And I have to believe that there was someone in an authority position that read this poem and should've wondered...something??? Pride. Concern. Maybe we should check her locker?
Now, this may only be me, but if I would've read this poem by one of my 11 year-old daughters I'd be hitting up a psychologist pretty hard for tips on how to encourage her AND save her, but also how to tame the beast brewing within**. I mean, hell...if she was thinking this before the monthly crisises and eruptions, what will she be like then?
But silence. Chirping. To this day I don't know if anyone ever read this poem. And not only did I go back to not sharing my work, but I don't know if I've ever regained confidence in my writing, I'm not sure it was ever that pure again. Honestly, I don't know if this was the event that truly charged my fear of vunerability. What I do know is I never forgot it.
And I remember it during times like this when I am in the process of submitting my work and applying for mentorships and workshops. I remembered it just yesterday when I got turned down from a local Cleveland literary organization intensive novel workshop. The bucket of tears dumped and it was endless for hours. All these thoughts permeated me.
I can't even be a top 8 in a small sea.
And if I can't even pitch my novel for a workshop and succeed, then what the fuck am I doing even trying?
And why did I even submit my poem again? It's all ready been rejected 3 times?
EVEN YOUR EDITOR BAILED ON YOU.
I give up.
I can't do this alone anymore.
And finally I went to bed and woke up and I started writing this blog. And then a friend called first thing in the morning and gave me the pep talk of a lifetime WHILE she's dealing with trauma herself. My husband sent me flowers and Nabisco Handi-snacks, knowing that what I really needed was processed cheese, a good cry, and some serious self-loathing.
Then I re-read my poem from 6th grade and decided to share it again, because ain't it the truth? This 11-year understood to her bone-wearied marrow that life wasn't easy. That sometimes it's great and sometimes not so much. She knew how hard this journey was going to be.
And now she's 51. Still afraid to share her work because so far in this writing journey she hasn't heard much praise over her work. Not a peep.
But you know what...here I am sharing the truth about my writing journey. And the ultimate lesson is that while being published is gratifying, having the courage to share the work of the soul deserves celebration. And in the end the lack of outside approval actually doesn't matter at all. I am still writing. And now for myself. Whether is sucks or not.
**SIDE NOTE: To be fair, mental health wasn't exactly a "thing" you dealt with in the 80s and I never shared this poem with my parents.
___
Oh! And on that poem that I submitted, I will know by the end of January if it was accepted. The title is "Apres-interlude, I sing." Think good thoughts about it and keep going, friends. What goes down, must come up.
Paradox
by 11-year old Cindy Shephard
I'm afraid to live,
Afraid to die.
Afraid to tell the truth,
Afraid to lie.
I'm afraid to surrender,
Afraid to fight,
Afraid to loosen up
When things get tight.
I'm afraid to hold on to
That special dream.
Afraid to let go of love
With a broken seam.
I'm afraid to be sensitive,
Because the world might know,
The real me,
I'm afraid to show.
I'm afraid to live,
As I said before.
But afraid to die,
When there's so much to live for.
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