Confession time

I start this entry with a confession that I've never made to anyone. Why share it here? Because I think it's essential to my boot camp success. And to one day calling myself a writer. A real writer.

Whenever I say I'm a writer, I find myself mumbling the words. My face gets hot, my tongue gets thick and my eyes seek out my feet. When I call myself a writer, I feel like a fraud. And the reason why goes waaaaay back--31 years back--to the Christmas when I was ten.

My sister and I always made cards for our parents, and this year I really wanted mine to be special. In years past, I had drawn Christmas trees, ornaments, Santas...you get the idea. But I wanted my card to look like those we received from family and friends. You know, the store-bought kind, with beautiful Currier & Ives landscapes, peaceful manger scenes or peek-thru-the-window views of fireplaces and stockings, rocking chairs and trees. But everything I tried to draw came out wrong.

So, I found a book of poetry on my shelf. The cover showed a picture of deer frolicking in the snow and decorating a tree in the woods. I couldn't draw the picture myself, so I traced it.

With the picture drawn and looking so nice, my ten-year-old poetry sounded so lame, even to ten-year-old me. Tracing the picture worked so well, why not copy a poem?

So I did. I copied a poem and signed my name to the card.

Beautiful.

On Christmas morning, I gave my card to the parents. Amazed at the picture, they asked if I had drawn it myself. I admitted, albeit reluctantly, that I had traced it. But I did do my own coloring!

Then they read the poem. "Dawn, this is wonderful! Did you write this? It is SO good!"

"Thanks," I said. But this time I did not admit that the work wasn't mine. Instead, I took credit where it wasn't due. Their praise meant so much to me, and I really wanted them to think I had a special gift for them...the gift of my words.

Only they weren't my words, and I never let them know.

From that point on, my parents--especially my Mom--talked about how well I wrote. She called me her little poet. I would beam at her words, but cringe when I thought back to their fraudulent source.

I did begin to write poems of my own, though. Ten-year-old girl poems that were about as good as a ten-year-old can write. I would show them to my Mom, and she would praise them as any good mom would do.

As I entered my teen years, I started to journal, writing pages upon pages whenever I had the chance. I also continued writing poetry. Now, not only were my parents praising me, but my teachers and friends were, too. Yet I still felt like a fraud.

I downplayed every success. When I had six poems published in Fragments, a literary magazine for high school kids published by Time-Life, I assumed they published everything they received. Why else would they publish all six of the poems (three at a time in two different issues) that I had submitted? When I had a couple of poems and an ink drawing published in a regional literary magazine, again I assumed it was because they just didn't have that many submissions.

While it may have occurred to me that maybe my poems and artwork were actually pretty good, I refused to believe it. Those first words of meaningful praise that came for words that were not mine took away my belief that I could write.

I still battle with that belief today as I try to prove, especially to myself, that I can write. That I am a writer.

The other day I received my Long Ridge assignment back from my instructor. If number grades were assigned, it would have been a 100. She made no corrections, no suggestions for improvement. She said, "Send this out. Its ready to go!" The only comment on the accompanying query letter (also part of the assignment) was "Perfect, of course! :-)"

I couldn't believe what I was reading. What was wrong with this lady? Why wasn't she ripping the article to shreds? Of course this article can't be perfect. I'm not that good. Hell, I'm not good at all!

I'm not even a writer. I'm just someone who once copied a poem and called it my own.