Rudderless No More

I am in my favorite position. I am sitting up in my queen-sized bed, legs straight out in front of me, my back against the cushioned bookcase headboard, big snowflakes falling wet and heavy against my windowpane, and my fingers stretched over my laptop keys. The music of wind and pelting snow feels right, so I leave off my Vince Guaraldi Trio favorites for now.

I write because I must. It is my raison d'être. I am good at it, but by no means am I great. Nevertheless, I have something to say, so I write.

I began writing at ten years old when my 5th-grade teacher assigned the class a short-story project. I had a recurring nightmare, and this assignment was a timely relief. I finally knew what to do about that awful dream. I drew a scary picture with colored pencils, then spilled the gruesome details out of the frightened areas of my little heart onto wide-lined paper. When I finished, I felt much better. The story had been clawing inside me, dragging me into trembling night terrors until I made it a tangible thing that I could hold outside myself. I stapled the cover and pages together in book-like form and handed it in. The nightmare was over.

I was too young to recognize the psychological benefits of journaling, but I have long since learned that my relief was not in ridding myself of fear’s poison but in giving voice to the courage of a child, validating her ability to slay dragons. That is why I write. I give voice to human life, with all its failings, struggles, joys, and strengths. That is my true calling.

The A+ my story earned was enough to incentivize me to write more. I began to write for the applause, which led to greater skill in grammar and vocabulary, which led to a career in professional writing. Press releases. White papers. Marketing collateral. Website copy. Speeches.

Writing for money took me off course. I still have something to say, but those words are building up inside me, trapped behind a wall of responsibility to my daughters, my landlord, my clients, and everyone else but me. Sometimes, the cacophony of characters in my mind is so loud that I write in the dark before my alarm rings, opening my sails haphazardly to relieve the pressure before I begin my day writing somebody else’s words. I have five half-written, novel-length manuscripts over the course of 20 years, plus several boxes of notebooks and scrap papers filled with ideas and research.

I came to Vocal determined to give an outlet to these voices. My daughter had stumbled across it and, knowing that I longed to write for myself, recommended I sign up. I read through some of the existing work on Vocal and thought, I can do this! I set up my profile, explored communities, and entered a couple of challenges.

Then, I read the winning entries and realized that I was a complete fraud. The prose was honest and deep with intent. The vocabulary was as precise as poetry. The flow pulled me effortlessly through climax and resolution, leaving me feeling enriched and satisfied. I would give my right arm to be able to write like that. So, I have been lurking on Vocal ever since, reading articles and fiction by several authors, writing drafts for additional challenges but not submitting them, and wondering why I keep paying for the subscription.

This 2024 Vocal Aspirations challenge has made me face that question directly. I have been writing off and on for decades before I ever heard of Vocal. The stories and notes are on my hard drive, my smartphone, and my Google Drive. They are in boxes and suitcases in my closet, storage locker, and on my nightstand. I even have a website blog with a journal of my personal story. Why am I here? Why pay to enter challenges I cannot win? Even worse, why pay for the opportunity to enter challenges but never submit?

Two reasons. One—because exquisite writing lives here. These authors deserve to win. They deserve to be read. They have something to say, and they are saying it with beauty and meaning. Much like my taxes help pay for potholes and schools, my Vocal+ dollars support a community of voices that deserve to be heard.

The second reason is because I have much to learn. The best writers are great readers. I can learn from the excellent choices in vocabulary and style made by some of the authors here. The communities allow me to explore the many lands of storytelling, bettering my own creative structure and navigation. And hopefully, to hear feedback from other authors who might comment on my work once I actually post it.

I have something to say, and whether or not I say it well, no one can hear me without a platform. Currently, my own writing is everywhere and nowhere. Perhaps I should be posting here. I must give voice to all the characters pressing me to be heard. Dr. Grace Coughtrey, whose heartache led her to clone herself. Jake, the trucker who drove 1,500 miles to bring home the cab that killed his friend. The prosecutor who dedicated his career and personal health to putting pedophiles behind bars. The adopted child who discovered her birth culture in her thirties.

Vocal is not my destination, but some of my characters might make port here, in this temporary harbor on my writing journey. In 2024, I might not write much on Vocal, but I can learn, stretch, and grow in my craft. I can continue to support the work of my peers. And perhaps, with the help of the Vocal community, I may end the year with an end to my meandering, having gained a true creative heading, rudderless no more.

The snowstorm has ended, and the plows are out. Snow angels and hot chocolate sound good right about now. I expect 2024 to be full of surprises. Whatever happens, I am grateful for Vocal, and I wish everyone a healthy, prosperous New Year with all the joy our hearts can hold.