On writing words of hope during seasons of darkness

“There once was a boy named Philly the Kid, and history’s full of the things that he did.”

These are the first two lines of a poem I wrote for my first creative writing class in college. At the time, I didn’t have much experience with poetry beyond the poems I’d memorized in grade school. So I really had no idea what I was doing when I was given that first assignment.

I tried reading what poetry I could get my hands on, looking for inspiration. But everything I tried to write felt stunted and stale. As the assignment due date approached, I began to panic and turned to something my family had done for fun at the dinner table: I made up a rhyming narrative that used my youngest brother’s nickname for the inspiration.

The day the assignment was due we were instructed to position our chairs in a circle. The professor then told us we would be reading our pieces one by one and randomly selected the person who would start the circle. None of us had been warned in advance and I think more than a few of us were caught off guard.

So there I sat, right dab in the middle of the rotation, listening to pieces written by students who clearly had some previous experience writing poetry. There were pieces that were soulful. Pieces that were dark. Pieces that shared hard things experienced.

And the more I listened, the more mortified I became. My poem was nothing like the things I was hearing from my fellow classmates. Mine was silly. Full of sunshine and hijinks. It was simple. Childish. And it was absolutely ridiculous.

Being someone who often goes out of her way not to be noticed, I knew there was no way I was going to be able to hide from this catastrophe of an assignment. Everyone was going to know I had no business being in this class. Just like I’d had no business being in the pre-med program I had withdrawn from the previous fall after working myself sick and barely passing my final exams.

To this day I can’t begin to describe the emotions that washed over me when my classmates applauded after I finished reading. Instead of being told I was wasting my time, I was told I had a gift. While everyone else around me had poured out the feelings they’d been wrestling with in our world of post-9-11 terror, I had found a ray of sunshine that allowed the room to momentarily forget their grief, anger, fear, and depression.

I was asked if I would write a story based on that poem and, after reading it, my professor suggested that I consider studying children’s literature. He then told me that whatever happened in life or in my writing, I should never let go of the warmth of my voice or of my hopeful outlook of the world.

It’s because of that poem that I’m still a writer today.

I now have two fully completed middle grade manuscripts, and even though they haven’t been accepted yet, other projects of mine have. So I keep pressing on. I continue to create. And I continue to look for the stories that shine a ray of hope into the darkness that is ever-present around us.

Once again, we live in a world that is overwhelmed with BIG emotions. People are legitimately scared and concerned. And because our attention is so heavily focused on the dark stuff, the bright things are going to sometimes feel awkward and out of place. But don’t stop writing those goofy little limericks and silly little stories. And don’t stop sharing them.

Now, more than ever, our world needs light and cheer and fun. Those are the stories we’ll remember when we come out on the other side. Because those are the stories that gave us hope when it felt like there was none.

Keep writing!