I came across an online discussion the other day that captured my attention, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. The question was a simple one: “What inspired you to begin writing?” A simple question with a something less than simple answer.
When I think about it, I can’t say that one thing or person inspired me to write. I wrote to survive. I grew up in a family in which expressing oneself could be- and very often was- a dangerous thing. I was the oldest of four boys, and I was never very good at keeping my feelings to myself. Part of it was the desire to protect my younger brothers, another part was a desperate need to express myself. Self-expression was viewed by my father as a threat to his authority- when he said “JUMP!,” the only acceptable response was “How high?” Because of this, I turned inward in search of a form of expression that was safe and mine alone. The end result is that I’m only just now beginning to realize just how much that experience has informed every aspect of my life…and what it’s cost me. Writing was safe; I could put my thoughts on paper and no one could see (or even be aware of) them if I chose not to reveal them. I could be honest, angry, assertive, and/or anything else I wanted to be, because I wasn’t risking my father’s wrath. I have no desire to go into great detail, but while I can’t pinpoint my initial inspiration, I do know that it was that desire for a safe means of self-expression that kept me going.
I discovered in high school that it was easier for me to express myself in writing than verbally. Writing allowed me to construct a thought. I could then add or subtract from it, change the phrasing, and massage it until it said what I was feeling. I kept a journal until I was about 25, and there are scores of notebooks and legal pads somewhere filled with the thoughts of my younger years. I have no idea where they are now, because UPS lost those boxes when I moved back to Portland from Houston. It’s too bad; I’d really like to be able to read those journals again and become reacquainted with my younger self.
Writing became my escape and my refuge. It was a safe place I went to when I needed to be able to express myself but couldn’t risk the backlash it might create. I grew into adulthood without ever really knowing how to openly voice my feelings. I’d never learned how or understood that my relationships were governed by the survival techniques I learned to get through my childhood. The sad thing is that while I understood writing was my gift and that it could be honed and developed, I lacked the self-confidence and the courage to pursue it. Like most writers (or other artists), I’m possessed by an overarching lack of self-confidence when it comes to my work. It takes some balls and a certain degree of arrogance to assume that others actually want to read what I write. Sadly, I was lacking in both departments.
It wouldn’t be until well into my adult years that I realized other people might be interested in reading my writing.
(Next: Jack learns to appreciate his talent for what it is.)
