In a beginner's writing workshop I took two years ago, the teacher, Tina Neidlein told us, “You never know who needs to hear your story, so they realize they’re not alone.”
It was a statement that would change my life.
Before the workshop, it had been twenty-five years since I had written anything. When I said that during the class introductions, I felt like Old Rose from Titanic:
It felt like forever since I’d received my English degree in creative writing. I aspired to achieve a Master of Fine Arts from the Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa and become a novelist, playwright, and possibly a screenwriter—at least, that was the plan.
It was the summer of 1995, and I had just completed the four-hour-long Graduate Record Examination, a required test for most postgraduate programs. The GRE felt like a maelstrom of madness with its relentless onslaught of repetitious questions. Especially vexing was the Quantitative Reasoning section—a fancy way of saying “Math.” I double majored in English and Sociology and minored in Psychology. No numbers in there. Anywhere.
I questioned why a writing program applicant needed to suffer through this. Why must I spend a grueling hour knowing that I’m answering all forty questions incorrectly? Could we maybe narrow this thing down by focus area?
A few weeks later, I received my meh score and started on the Writers’ Workshop application. When I got to the requirement that asked me to submit 30 to 80 pages of short stories or a book, I heard the record scratch in my head and froze. I had no such portfolio. Isn’t that why I’m coming to you? To teach me how to write “The Great American Novel?” Ah, the naivete of youth. I thought I would just waltz into the prestigious program waving my Bachelor of Arts degree like a magic wand opening the door to Hogwarts—"Alohomora!"
Throughout college, I worked a part-time clerical job at a local health insurance company. They were willing to accommodate my fluctuating class schedule, adjusting my hours each semester. During summer breaks, I would work full-time.
It was mindless work, but it got the job done—gas in the tank, ridiculously expensive textbooks purchased, and a belly full of ramen. Not today’s gourmet variety, but the ten-cent salt licks that magically turned into soup with a bit of hot water.
For four years, I alphabetized forms, filed paperwork, and shredded boxes of outdated documents. Days lasted forever, especially during the summer. But I knew it was temporary. I had a plan.
In my fourth and final year, the thought of only having to endure one more summer before heading off to graduate school put a little pep in my step. Until the fateful Saturday when I sat down at the breakfast room table to complete that application.
Plan A-Z was wiped out in an instant. I’d had a dream but convinced myself there was only one path to achieving it. Now that path was washed away and I was left rudderless.
Resigning myself to the loss, I continued working at the insurance company that summer. Nearly thirty years later, I’m still in the same industry. Over the years, the job evolved, and I climbed within the organization, reaching higher levels of middle management. I’d upgraded from ten-cent ramen to $20 carryout orders from various restaurants. But the work remained unfulfilling.
Writing became my escape, my coping mechanism for the life of quiet desperation I was leading. Even though I did not become the famous author I’d dreamed of, I continued to write voraciously throughout my twenties. Every day when the clock hit 4:30, I broke loose from my corporate bindings, and set my creativity free.
I sat at that same breakfast room table, brushing aside the shards of my shattered dream, filling empty pages for hours. Prose and poetry poured out of me. I even cranked out 100 pages of a science fiction novel, which today lies dormant in a faded, coffee-stained folder at the bottom of a filing cabinet.
But there was one piece I wrote during this time that I cherish to this day. I pull it out occasionally to spark inspiration. To remind me of what I was capable of. How I could put pen to paper, words flowing effortlessly in varying patterns and cadences across the blank canvas in front of me.
It's a poem called "Evernight." A title I also hold dear because it’s the name of the imaginary place I conjured up to flee from my reality. An ethereal place, both haunting and tantalizing, born from a scene in an episode of one of my all-time favorite shows, Xena: Warrior Princess.
It was the imagery of Gabrielle, one of the main characters, that inspired the themes of “Evernight.” I was mesmerized watching her, suspended in midair as flames spiraled around her and ancient ceremonial music played to a crescendo.
The visual led to a three-page journey through an enchanted realm that began with:
As years passed and my writing waned, I fought to get back to the place of unbridled creativity that led to “Evernight”; to recapture the passion behind it. I was baffled by my inability to do so.
For me, inspiration often springs from my undying love for science fiction and superheroes. I’m captivated by the characters and narratives of these genres because they make me feel like I’m part of a deeply bonded group with a sense of purpose, like being in a Scooby Gang. A feeling I strive for in the real world.
And while my obsession kept growing with the influx of new content like the MCU, the Arrowverse, and numerous post-apocalyptic franchises, “Evernight” would be my last meaningful piece of writing for twenty-five years.
I felt like Tony Stark in Avengers: Infinity War when he confessed to Bruce Banner why he hesitated to call Captain America. “Cap and I fell out hard.” My muse and I had a similar falling out, and the blank page that was once inviting became paralyzing.
Fast forward to August 2022. The impact of recent events weighed heavily on me: the shadow of COVID, the loss of my eighty-year-old mother just two weeks prior, and the looming milestone of my 50th birthday. The urgency to make the most of time was palpable. “If not now, when?” echoed incessantly in my thoughts. And that’s how, despite the still crippling fear of a blank page, I found myself sitting in a beginner’s writing workshop.
My sister-in-law, who knew my dreams of writing had been dashed, had heard about Tina’s workshop and encouraged me to contact her. It was serendipitous.
Tina’s workshop provided the kind of practical wisdom, tangible lessons, and low-pressure atmosphere I needed for a restart and after a decades-long drought, I was writing again. And I was writing in a form I had not previously explored—personal non-fiction.
It was unnerving at first. As Tina outlined her plan for us, I couldn’t help but wonder: What could I possibly have to say about my life that would be of interest? “The world needs your stories,” she’d insist, as if I were a comic book character and she could see the anguished thought bubble above my head.
I graduated from the beginner’s class into a group that meets every month to share our writing, and to hear the mantra Tina still recites repeatedly, hoping it assimilates into our subconscious, the little voice of encouragement in our heads. The world needs our stories. Over time, it’s started to sink in and her exercises and writing prompts are uncovering a cache of tales I now believe are worth telling.
You never know who needs to hear your story, so they realize they’re not alone.
It’s a reciprocal sentiment. It empowers us to pen our narratives, but we also uncover a sense of solidarity in discovering that others have tread similar paths. And so it is my hope that in sharing my stories, we feel a little more connected on our journey through life, finding community and comfort in our similarities. That together, we realize we’re not alone.
And as for “Evernight”, I’ll always treasure that mystical land, but I’ve got a new world to explore now—my own.
Goosebumps and teary eyed. The way you write kept me engaged and eager to read more.
Your stories have helped me to feel like sharing my stories matters. Thank you for being brave and sharing that with me! 🙏❤️