FOR NERVOUS ROOKIES

By Jerry Elsea

“Writing creatively reminds me of running a race,” I said to wife Fran.

“Everything reminds you of running,” she said.

She’s right, but careful writing does run parallel to a vigorous 5k. Both efforts bring challenges. But perseverance brings reward.

As a master runner (meaning old) I often tell neophytes, “You’re looking good. Have you ever considered entering a local road race?’

The usual answer: “Are you kidding? What if I finished last? I’d die.”

As a longtime writing coach, I tell fledglings, “Time to try out your wings. Submit your best for publication or enter a writing contest.”

The standard reply: “Are you kidding? What if I get rejected or end up looking silly? I’d die.”

Whether from aspiring runners, writers, lay speakers or figure skaters, such misgivings are echoes from school days – specifically high school, where shy kids cringe at the prospect of exposing their inexperience to a demanding, judgmental universe. “Debate team? I’d die.” “Cheerleading? I’d die.” “Dramatics? I’d die.”

Stage fright, or fear of stage fright (“I’d die), can torment adults well into middle age. For timid speakers, versatile entertainer Steve Allen had the best advice. In “How To Make a Speech” (McGraw-Hill 1986) he said that in a jittery presentation, “you would have to turn pale, pass out and fall into the orchestra pit before anyone would remember the incident a week later.”
Same goes for trepidatious writers. My guarantee: Unless you take a literary pratfall – splicing sentences, spraying adjectives and dangling your participles – no one will care about your few flaws.

Instead your peers and instructors will clap you on the back for overcoming anxiety and hanging in. They will celebrate creativity much the way runners revel in physical fitness.

But unlike weekend athletes, your writing community doesn’t wear down so fast. Everyone keeps growing in the craft and no one approaches a daunting challenge with “I’d die.”



GIFTS AND GOODBYES

By Robyn Whitlock

"You wrote this?" my grandpa asked.

I nodded.

"It's good," he said. My heart swelled. It was just a short essay published in a magazine that nobody reads anyway, but it was the first time I had seen my writing in print. And my grandpa liked it.

Growing up, visiting Grandpa was like visiting an exotic superhero. He rode a motorcycle and drank beer, both of which were taboo in the ultra-conservative religious home I grew up in. That's probably why I liked him so much.

Grandpa was a big fan of my writing. He read everything I wrote and often commented, "You have a wonderful way with words. It doesn’t matter what you write, just keep writing!"

As the years went by and Grandpa got older, he traded in his motorcycle for a sedan, then when his eyes went bad, a bus pass. I didn't get to see him as often as I wanted to, but we kept in touch by email and pictures of the grandkids sent through the mail. I trudged along with my writing, not an easy task with young children. I wrote during the fringe hours, early in the morning and late at night, while the dirty dishes languished in the sink and the laundry took on a life of its own. There was just never enough time to get it all done.

Last summer I sat with Grandpa on a bench in the shade. He didn't have much energy for conversation, but it was enough to just be with him. After a while, he said, "Tell me about your writing." So I did.

I talked about what I was working on, published and unpublished. I told him what I'd like to write someday, but am afraid to. The stories I can't say out loud yet. He listened and nodded. He smiled. "Just keep writing," he encouraged. "You have a gift with words."

He never asked the practical questions, like "Are you making any money yet?" Grandpa was way past practical. After raising six kids, too much of his life had been spent being practical. The end of his life was devoted to relationships and philosophy and just doing whatever he wanted to do.
Grandpa had been in and out of the hospital, and when we said goodbye, I think we both knew: this is really goodbye. He held me for a long time and in a rare show of emotion, his eyes filled with tears. "I love you," he said, holding me tighter.

"I love you too," I said.

Then he said it again. "I love you."

Now we were both crying.

"Keep on writing," he whispered.

"I will, Grandpa."

He died the following spring.

Now that he's gone, his words hold even more meaning. I'm still trudging along with my writing. Some weeks I write every day; other weeks, I can barely manage to finish my grocery list. But I'm still writing. I will always write.



BEJEWELED

Connie Scharlau

Bejeweled dew upon a blade of grass
one aspires to the same
perfection in a poem
but my words are more like
a row of redwings
on a telephone wire
unevenly spaced
one or two facing
the wrong direction.