I was going through a secret box I keep hidden in the back of the closet in an old wooden chest. I call it my inspiration box.

It’s full of oddities, pictures, poems, sayings, childhood drawings, love notes, letters and everything in between. Sometimes when I’m feeling blocked or unsure, I begin the adventure of pouring through all that I’ve collected.

Today, I found a small (9cmX13CM) booklet from 1916 when my grandmother taught at a school. Inside were three poems meant to encourage its graduates. However, 85 years later, one of the poems by Longfellow is encouraging me.

A Psalm of Life by Longfellow
“Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fat;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

What I find so profound about that is the fact that not only is he encouraging you to do things, but he’s also encouraging you to be patient with the outcome.

As a writer, you sometimes want to write, have it published, and then have instantaneous feedback. You want to know what’s happening to your piece, where it is in the universe, who is reading it and what they think.

Sometimes, however, all you can do is write something the best that you know how, and then just wait.

With my first magazine article out, a part of me is so curious as to how it’s being received. I want to know whose read it, how many have read it and what they thought of it. But I know that all I can really control is the part where I did the writing. I have to wait for the rest.

Sometimes that’s really hard, to just give up control like that. To release something into the world and just let it be.

I went out tonight to the cafe with Chris to celebrate my article being accepted into another magazine and also to talk about my docent program and my upcoming art class.

He sipped his coffee and I my chai tea and we talked about what part creativity played in our lives and how important it was to not just myself, but to him as well.

I told him that if I do get another job down the road it will be in a field that I am loving. This is why my art class & training as a Docent at the Art Museum have been very important to me - they’re opening my eyes to new directions and paths that I might one day want to be on.

However, right now, I just want to write 100% of the time, because that’s when I’m the happiest, most content and also, the proudest.

I discussed with him money concerns. Although we live simply and totally within our means I can’t help but sometimes feel like I’m bringing in less than I should - or could. He reminded me that we are already taken care of and anything more is just a bonus. And that by writing and going to art school, I am investing in myself, and if I can’t invest in myself than what I’m really saying is I don’t believe in myself.

And I believe in all of this more than anything.

So we chatted for quite some time, long after our drinks went empty. And as we were chatting some man next to us began to talk to us.

He asked us what we did.

And without hesitation, without blinking an eye, without stuttering or trying to think, I said, “I’m a writer.”

That felt so good. I had been so shy about it before, always afraid the person would ask me more questions than I could handle and I’d come out looking like an ass and not, in fact, a writer.

But tonight, I was confident. And when he asked me what I wrote for I told him that I wrote articles for magazines.

“My wife’s been wanting to do that for years,” he said.

“She should try it,” I said back. “It’s actually pretty easy.”

“Easy? That’s probably easy for you to say,” he said.

“All you have to do is try,” I said back.

I have written many journal entries for this site. They’re sitting tucked away on my hard drive in such a disheveled fashion. There are the basic .txt files, the slightly modified .doc files and the almost but not quite done .html files.

I don’t, however, have any complete ones to share. I’ve been trying really hard to finish them, and I think that’s my problem.

When I first started this site is was with such basic, naive intentions. I just wanted to share in a really simple quick way what I was feeling, doing or going through with regards to my evolution as a writer.

And that was enough.

However, a couple of months ago my site was recognized with an award and within two days I had over 50,000 hits - not the normal 500 or so per day I usually get. And with all those hits came a lot of email.

While a lot were supportive, a lot were very critical, especially of my grammar. I didn’t want to write articles and perfectly articulated pieces in my journal entries because they were supposed to be as honest and as real as possible. But because I had received so much email about my poor grammar, I thought perhaps these strangers were right, and I should change my format.

So I did.

I started to work really hard at language and punctuation. I double checked my nouns and verbs and made sure it all made sense.

Also, around this time I started to get a floor of email from people who encouraged what I was doing. They’d tell me how they wish they could do it, how they’d follow me through my journey or they hoped I would find success with this somehow.

I started to feel pressure to be inspiring and achieve some kind of success. I felt I was not only living out my dream for myself, but for all those other people who couldn’t. That was a very heavy load to bare, and I started to crumble slightly. But I felt I had carry it because I had some kind of duty. That lead me to no longer write how I was feeling but instead to write how I thought I should be feeling.

So I didn’t write that one day I was so inspired and creative and the next day there was nothing coming out of my brain. Instead I wrote about only the good things that were going on and tried to focus solely on those. I didn’t want people to think that if I was having troubles that they would too. I didn’t want to come off as unsure anymore. I felt I had to be inspiring and “on” all the time, even if I was the complete opposite that day. I felt I had to have uplifting endings to all my entries, even if there wasn’t one. I became more guarded of what I was going to say. I thought I had to write like a writer in my journal, instead of the simple girl without all the answers who simply writes.

Between grammar and trying to come across as collected, I went from spending 10 minutes per entry to over an hour or two. And the thing is, I was less satisfied with the more effort I put into it.

With an article, grammar and intention is extremely important, and spending time working on those and rewriting and rewriting and rewriting is something that is just part of the game. But for my journal entries here, I think that’s a very bad approach.

I have to just let it come out here. It has to be simple because that’s the only way I can really convey what’s going on with me and my writing. The journey is what’s important - not the punctuation.

My first published article finally came out in the September/October edition of Nervy Girl Magazine. I was so excited and proud that all I wanted to do was run out and buy fifty copies.

The only problem was, I couldn’t. I couldn’t find any local places that sold this magazine.

You see it’s a small magazine and it doesn’t sit on every shelf in every store. Up until a short while ago, I hadn’t even heard of it. I just happened one day to come across their open call for writers on a website somewhere and I offered them something I had written. It didn’t bother me that they were a small magazine because I believed that I had to start somewhere at sometime and that’s just what I did.

Shortly after I submitted my articles to them I received an email from them saying that they wanted to publish me. I was thrilled and slowly started to mention to people that I was going to be published. However, since it’s not a household name magazine people would always say to me, “Nervy What? Is that a real magazine?”

Because so many people hadn’t heard of it, most assumed that it was a trivial silly little magazine without any importance or basis of being real at all. Some people thought that being published in it didn’t mean anything. They thought anyone and their mother could have done it - what was so special about me? If I were, in fact, a writer I’d be telling them my article was published in The New Yorker and not Nervy Girl Magazine.

At one point I stopped telling people the name of the magazine because I had begun to feel as though I had aimed low or never really accomplished anything. I had forgotten that I was just starting out and I had so much to learn, that I should have been thankful that someone recognised some kind of talent and meaning I had and wanted to share it with others.

However I realised why some people felt that being published in a small magazine wasn’t enough. It was because they had equated living your dream with living large and being successful by way of fame and fortune. It’s hard for some people to comprehend that those aren’t the motivations for everyone, and not everyone’s dream is to have lights flashing above them saying “star.” Some people just want to do what they want to do, simply because that is their passion. Whether it be a painter, teacher, parent, golfer, actor, singer, or in my case, writer.

That realisation made me go back to what my motivations for writing were. They were not for fame, money, bragging rights or the adoration of fans but rather to empower others, give an insight or two or to just simply express my thoughts in the only real way I know how. Above all, my motivation was to be true to my heart and simply do what I needed to do - write.

Remembering my true motivations reminded me that I had done what I had set out to do and on top of it, I was published. That led me to feel very proud of what I had so far, in so little time. I had started somewhere, and even if it wasn’t the biggest place in the world, it was someplace.

The day of September 11th I lost all words. I had no coherent thoughts or ideas. There was no creativity or passion inside me that day. I was left, as most people, in complete shock. I went to bed that night not knowing what to think about that day or the future.

The days that followed my mind started to slowly grasp what had happened. The more aware I became of what was going on and how I felt, the less I understood where my writing belonged.

I thought perhaps now my writing was inappropriate. A few weeks earlier I had submitted an article to be published on the topic of Bravery and I wrote about how scary it can be to give up what you know and live how you really want to. I was really proud of it when I submitted it and even prouder when it was accepted for publication.

However, after September 11th that article seemed silly and naïve. I thought how daft it was for me to write that bravery was about following your dream since the real bravery was those who put their lives at risk for others each day. So I stopped writing.

A part of me wanted to keep writing because I believed that if Tuesday’s attack had reinforced any belief I had it was us that each moment is so precious and that we should not waste any time that we’re given. I kept asking myself how many of the people who never came out of work that day at least went in happy and did what they loved? I asked myself if that had been my last day would I have died living as consciously, happy and as real as I could have been? My answer would have been yes and I wanted it to be yes for others. Realising that gave me the courage to continue writing and to encourage others to live in the moment they way they want. Because as seen on September 11th, you only get one chance at this life and you’ll never know when it’ll stop.

However, when I tried to just get back to writing, I had major problems.

The attack had left me with so many mixed emotions and varied opinions that I didn’t know where to begin. I had married fact with my experiences and I didn’t know how to make sense of it all. I felt as though I should be able to put every thought I had into my brain and make some beautiful, coherent article to express it all. “I’m a writer,” I thought, “this is what I do. I write about real life. What could be more real than this?”

Yet each attempt I made seemed so inadequate, too contrived or just down right stupid. I began to feel frustrated and less and less like a writer. I felt I had over-analyzed and overworked my brain and my writing and I was getting nowhere fast.

So I took a break.

I went on a fall retreat where there was no television or newspapers. There were no deadlines, no pressures, no writing tools or word documents. There was nothing but the calm, quiet presence of nature and myself. One day I hiked up to the top of a mountain and looked around. I saw these beautiful peaks that were there long before I got here and would remain long after I’d left. I realised how little time we actually spend on earth and how few of us ever make any kind of lasting impact. I realised that perhaps through my writing, I could create something that would last. I could create some kind of beauty.

Through writing, I can do that. I can’t fix yesterday or create the perfect tomorrow. All I can do is live today and do what I know how to do.

And that’s continuing on with writing.

I received this email this morning:

Hi Alex, First of all I want to welcome you to our writers’ tribe at Be Real Magazine. We are delighted to have you join us! We intend to include one of your pieces in the Bravery issue, which will be out sometime in November.

Thank you again for your contributions - contributing in itself is an act of bravery!

Yay!

all the best,
Julie

This website has touched more people than I ever thought possible; I have received so much email from so many that I can’t help but be amazed by each note I receive. There are a lot of people who want to do what I’m doing, and sometimes that makes me feel like I’m not only doing this for myself, but for every other person who just can’t.

That’s been a lot of pressure. Pressure I didn’t know I’d have and I don’t know what to do about it all yet.

Some days I’m feeling really good about my accomplishments thus far. I think for 5 months and no experience I’m doing pretty well; two articles are being published by two different magazines and I run a pretty successful website that seems to be encouraging to others somehow. But then I get some feedback or think some thought that makes me insecure about it all and then I start to think, “Who am I to be a role model? Who am I to talk about living out a dream? Who am I to talk about what success is when I don’t know it?”

I haven’t been paid for the two published, and they’re both for small magazines. I figured I had to start somewhere, and starting small seemed really good. I didn’t want to go big until I had learned more. But the problem is, there is so much to learn and I’m still wrapped up completely in that process. And I fear that because nothing that I’ve written has been bought, that perhaps I haven’t had success yet? Perhaps because I haven’t designed the all-wonderful portfolio that I can’t get real feedback on what I’ve written and I’m somehow hiding from real criticism.

Sometimes being so public is frightening; perceived failure and insecurities seem to be amplified. I hope there’s use to all of this to balance out the doubt I sometimes have.

I think the problem I face with writing as my current and only job is that I give myself too much freedom. I think I do this because I have never had freedom in a job. Before I had to be at work by 8am and I had to put in my 8 hours or else. I had to do work each day to keep the job and to get paid for it and earn respect. I had pressures to fulfill my job title. I had a boss. There were rules I had to follow Monday through Friday.

Now, there aren’t any. I’m free now and I think that perhaps I have taken that too far.

I was good, in the beginning. I had my morning routine and it worked. Then I slacked because it was just so easy to do. I was lazy. Then I thought I had gotten back into it only to realise I am still spastic about when I write.

I realised today that what I have to do is show up on the page, everyday.

Whether I want to or not, whether I think I can or not. Whether I have a brilliant idea, or at best a shoddy one, I have to show up each day.

I know it’s going to be hard because the writing I do is based on what I know, feel, see and understand. And some days I kick ass and some days, not so much. And it’s been on the not so much days that I have found it hard to write. That’s when I usually make pathetic attempts or sometimes, none at all. I use the excuse, “it’s just not in me today” and just kind of give up.

What I realise now, however, is that it is in me to write everyday. There is no reason to. Even if it’s not the best, it’s something. It’s using my brain, it’s learning the process, it’s keeping me going, it’s setting me up for when there is something great. It doesn’t matter if every day I write brilliantly or not at this point, what matters is that I show up every day. Every day, regardless.

Writing is my job. If this is going to work, if I am to succeed, it will be only because I worked at it and worked hard - even if I didn’t want to. I think it’s really important for me to get the kind of work ethic I had at a job I didn’t care about, into the job that means more than anything. No one ever made it by sitting on the sidelines or doing half-assed work.

They made it because they showed up, everyday.

I was going to just go straight home after the Docent class today, but as I left the class I started to have all these thoughts running through my brain. And I thought by the time I had caught the bus and gotten home and turned on the computer, all the thoughts would have disappeared. So instead of letting that happen, I stopped into a cafe for a latte and a salad so that I could sit down and write it all in the moment.

That step, that stopping to write, was a huge step for me. So huge in fact that my hands trembled as I wrote all that I had to write down.

What was so important to record was the message I received today. A message that I learned over the course of two hours by listening to a dozen or so women speak about their lives and how art fit into it. They shared their stories of how they had adored art as children or teenagers but had given it up to be “practical” or raise families or become attorneys or secretaries. And by listening to all these women who were all older than I, I kept hearing the same message over and over.

The message was:
In your life, don’t waste one moment. Don’t be unconscious. Don’t put anything on hold for later - do it now. If you have a passion, live it. Don’t wait. Live now.

That message came so clear and loud to me today. A lot of these women had waited 20, 30 or 40 years to get “back into art.” They had given up their passion a long time ago, only to claim it so many years later.

I understood where they were coming from since I had put my life on hold when I came to America two years ago. That’s when I decided to be practical and get “into business.” That’s when I lost myself and kept saying, “one day I’ll do X” But instead of living in the moment and pursuing what I really wanted, I just kept living unconsciously, one day to the next, and never did much of anything.

Then five months ago I woke up. All I can say is how lucky am I, at 27, to be conscious and living. How lucky am I that I only wasted two years and not twenty.

Had I heard this message a few months ago, I don’t think the impact would have been as great, because I believed I was living in the now and finally listening to my heart. And for the most part I was. But I think the reason why the message was so emotional and so BIG for me was because I heard it today.

Today had been a string of yesterdays from the previous three weeks when I had fallen off track and became unconscious. I hadn’t written much the past few weeks because there was nothing in me to write. I hadn’t been living, I hadn’t been following my heart. I was silent because I was living another kind of life that made me feel embarrassed, like a failure, and as though I hadn’t been being real.

You see, three weeks ago I took up a part time 3 days a week job as a receptionist. I did it solely for money because I had wanted to take two art classes but had to cancel one because I couldn’t afford it - I had barely enough money to purchase all the supplies for just one class. There were fees and books to buy for the Docent program that I started today and would be partaking in over the next year. And also I had wanted to save up and purchase an Ibook so I could write at any time because my husband was now in school and was using the main computer more and more and my time writing on the computer was getting less and less. And there were just other financial adjustments to make when you go from living on two salaries to just one. So needless to say I felt the economic pressure and I buckled. I took up a small part time job to try to achieve more.

But the only thing I achieved was that of feeling small. I felt like I was living a lie. I was embarrassed to tell anyone that I had taken on a part time job because I thought how dare I keep a website encouraging others to live their dream if I am not making it living mine? All the energy, the happiness, the excitement I had before I took the job wore thinner and thinner each day I had to answer the telephone. I couldn’t separate the reception job from that of my writing job. I thought I could, I really truly believed I could, but I couldn’t. I felt I had gone backwards, betrayed myself, and I felt truly sick about the whole thing. I started to feel trapped again, and I realised I was drifting along once more.

However hearing the women today woke me up and made me realise that I can’t waste one more minute being something I hate. I already did that. I was down that path before and I remember what it did to me. And I am not going to waste one more day not living because I’ve come too far to go back.

Being in the art gallery, talking about my passion in art and writing and feeling terribly amazing from it all, I realised that I can’t be anything but a writer and an artist - that’s what makes me feel alive. Even if sometimes I face a challenge as a writer/artist that feels almost impossible, as least I feel alive and conscious of it and know that I am in control and I am choosing how to live and that somehow, someway, something positive will come of it. And I have to believe that the money will someday follow if I just continue to work hard at this and not give up. Because as Andrea said to me, “authenticity has it’s rewards.”

The trick, I think, is just believing in that.

And I do, now. My experience today just solidified to me who I am and who I want to be. The message reminded me that I am alive now, and how dare I waste that opportunity.

Side note: As I wrote this in the café, a gentleman in his 50’s or 60’s approached me and said, “Are you a writer?” And I looked at him and said, “How did you know?” He said, “The way you’re dressed and the way your eyes light up and come alive when you have that pen on the paper.”